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FRANS  HALS 

REUNION  OF  THE  OFFICERS  OF  THE  ARCHERS  OF  ST.  ADRIEN  (1663) 


ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES 
OF  PAINTING 


BY 

JOHN  LA  FARGE 

AUTHOR  OF  “THE  HIGHER  LIFE  IN  ART,*’ 
“GREAT  MASTERS,”  ETC. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Garden  City  New  York 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  & COMPANY 
1913 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1904,  1905,  1907,  BY  S.  S.  MCCLURE  CO. 
COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  & COMPANY 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N Yc 


To  Grace  E.  Barnes,  a friend  in  deed,  in  memory 
of  help  in  this  very  work.  Dated  Butler 
Hospital,  September  30,  1910. 


PREFACE 


The  contemplation  of  art  is  a form  of  study  of  the  history 
of  man  and  a very  certain  one.  Its  records  are  absolutely 
disinterested  from  any  attempt  at  proving  anything.  All 
the  more  certain  is  the  testimony  of  what  we  usually  call 
art — that  is  to  say,  the  representation  of  fact  and  feeling  by 
the  image  of  these  facts  — when  it  contradicts  our  usual 
beliefs  derived  from  literature  or  what  is  called  history  and 
the  record  of  opinions.  In  such  a view  it  makes  an  accurate 
manner  of  measuring.  And,  besides,  the  work  of  plastic 
art  records  in  the  same  way  as  real  life  does  the  mass  of 
feelings  that  belong  to  the  moment  of  its  production.  It 
is  all  the  more  accurate  that  it  is  confused  like  life  itself. 
We  have  felt  this  when  we  have  looked  at  monuments  of  the 
past,  which  bring  up,  unspoken  and  without  details,  the  habit 
of  life  and  the  manner  of  thinking  of  the  people  among  whom 
the  work  grew.  The  wrork  of  art  also  grows  slowly.  As  it  used 
to  take  a long  time  to  build  a cathedral,  as  even  a painting 
is  the  result  of  much  combination  of  thought,  so  is  there 
time  to  have  the  work  accumulate  the  many  impressions 
which  the  artist  has  received,  and  which  he  places  in  his  work 

vii 


viii  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
without  being  aware  of  the  multitude  of  impressions  which 
he  has  received,  and  which  he  hands  to  us.  He  hands  them 
to  us  with  a greater  unconsciousness  than  is  given  to  us  by 
the  forms  of  writing.  He  is  not  suspected  of  intentions; 
perhaps  he  has  none.  The  tyrant,  who  is  the  subject  of  the 
congratulations  and  praises  of  the  poet  and  the  clergyman 
and  historian,  is  handed  down  to  us  in  the  bare  fact  of  his 
nature  by  the  portrait  painter  of  whom  he  has  no  suspicion. 
For  similar  reasons,  the  greater  forms  of  art  are  not  affected 
by  fashion,  which  belongs  only  to  the  few,  and  the  record 
of  human  life  is,  therefore,  deeper  and  more  continuous. 
We  see  man  as  he  was  from  the  beginning,  carried  through 
many  changing  forms,  which  in  the  written  record  are  made 
to  appear  more  important  and  less  transient  than  they  really 
are.  We  gain,  therefore,  through  plastic  art,  the  most  sin- 
cere of  all  expressions  by  document,  because  of  its  dealing 
with  external  facts,  and  its  giving  us  innumerable  statements 
which  are  not  meant  to  be  given,  and  which  the  sincerity 
of  the  artist  unconsciously  places  before  us.  We  are  slowly 
beginning  to  recognize  these  facts,  and  to  understand  that 
the  record  of  art  passes  beyond  the  record  of  the  historian. 
It  does  so  because  it  is  not  a useful  record;  it  does  not  live 
from  necessity,  but  from  choice,  and  it  avoids  the  pressure  of 
necessity. 


PREFACE  ix 

We  obtain  from  the  work  of  art  parallel  and  different 
statements.  We  learn  how  our  ancestors  — that  is  to  say, 
all  mankind  — lived,  externally,  and  their  ideas  concerning 
that  external  life;  what  things  they  did  to  carry  on  the  form 
of  their  civilization,  what  shapes  of  building  they  used,  and 
how  they  liked  to  have  their  life,  in  and  out,  ordered;  what 
their  ideas  were  of  propriety  and  behaviour.  But  we  also 
get  what  were  their  desires,  their  aspirations,  their  ideas 
concerning  matters  of  feeling,  of  the  higher  life,  and  their 
relation  to  a life  beyond.  Thus  we  know  what  they  thought 
of  life;  we  know  also  wThat  they  thought  of  death.  We  have 
before  us  the  mirror  of  life  at  a given  moment.  It  is  with 
this  impression  of  art  being  the'  mirror  of  life  that  I have 
selected  certain  works  of  the  art  of  painting,  choosing,  as 
far  as  possible,  such  as  might  well  be  called  masterpieces, 
or  works  of  extraordinary  merit,  partly  because  the  greater 
works  carry  on  more  thoroughly  the  life  of  all  mankind,  apart 
from  small  fluctuations  of  fashion  or  disturbances  which  are 
evanescent,  however  important  they  have  seemed  for  a time. 

I have  tried  in  the  comments  to  connect  these  works  with 
the  life  of  their  time,  and  while  insisting  that  they  have  not 
merely  dropped  off  as  fruit  from  a tree,  but  are  the  results 
of  much  effort  and  personal  study,  application,  experience,  and 
knowledge  of  humanity,  I have  tried  to  show  that  they  are 


X ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
inseparable  from  the  heart  of  the  moment.  I have  tried  to 
divide  and  classify  them  in  some  way  by  a reference  to  the 
currents  of  perpetual  sentiments,  of  ideas  which  man  has 
always  had,  under  many  different  forms,  and  which  have 
had  in  these  works  an  expression  — sometimes,  indeed,  for 
the  first  time  after  indefinite  centuries.  I have  avoided  any 
very  strict  technical  explanations.  I have  shown  some  of 
the  larger  points  in  the  construction  of  each  work,  according 
to  the  perpetual  laws  which  belong  to  the  special  art  I have 
chosen  to  illustrate.  It  is  often  unjust  to  a public  to  ask  it 
to  enter  into  the  minor  points  of  art,  which  it  is  incapable 
of  appreciating,  and  which  are  often  debatable  points.  Too 
many  critics  indulge  in  discussion  of  smaller  technical  points 
which  at  various  times  are  debated,  sometimes  violently 
opposed,  and  very  often  finally  accepted  forever.  I have 
tried,  however,  to  so  write  from  a long  experience  in  the  study 
of  art  that  a student,  or  any  one  sensitive  to  the  impression 

of  a work  of  art,  might  learn  more  about  its  methods,  its  ori- 

■ w 

gins,  and  the  special  circumstances  which  have  helped  to 
make  it;  the  personality  of  the  maker,  the  habits  of  his  time, 
and  those  matters  which  allowed  him  freedom  or  tied  him 
down.  I hope,  in  this  way,  to  help  to  dissipate  false  ideas 
which  limit  our  enjoyment  of  the  work  of  art  and  which  also 
limit  and  cramp  our  mental  action.  The  study  of  art  is  a 


PREFACE  xi 

great  education.  I have,  of  course,  used  the  word  art  as  it 
is  usually  narrowed  down  to  certain  forms  of  plastic  repre- 
sentation and  ornament.  Of  course  we  know,  or  we  ought  to 
know,  that  art  is  a human  function  used  by  every  one,  more 
or  less,  even  where  plastic  art  is  forbidden  by  religion  or 
prejudice,  or  does  not  exist  from  habit.  The  nations  which 
have  objected  to  certain  forms  of  plastic  art  have  carried 
art  into  expression  very  fully,  through  ceremonies  and  dress, 
even  into  the  minutest  details,  as  we  know  by  the  story  of  the 
Bible  and  the  habits  of  all  churches;  as  also,  for  instance,  the 
manner  through  which  the  monastic  orders  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  during  an  efflorescence  of  plastic  art,  objected  to  the 
distractions  of  the  great  art  of  stained  glass,  painted  walls, 
and  melody  and  colour  and  pomp  of  all  kinds.  They  were 
doing  what  later  the  Quakers  did,  or  the  Puritans,  in  their 
whitewashed  places  of  meeting,  wherein  the  simplicity  they 
sought  for  was  merely  a manner  of  expression  through  art. 

I repeat  that  I have  chosen  masterpieces  or  beautiful 
examples,  not  only  because  they  are  beautiful,  which  in 
itself  is  all-sufficient,  but  because  they  escape,  in  that  way, 
the  touch  of  the  bad  taste  of  fashion  — that  is  to  say,  of 
momentary  intentions.  I have  been  obliged  to  be  very  arbi- 
trary in  the  divisions,  self-imposed,  made  to  limit  and  direct 
a choice  in  so  few  examples  as  one  hundred.  But  I have 


xii  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
tried  to  make  these  divisions  very  different  in  intention,  with 
the  hope  of  covering  a larger  field  of  life  and  of  art.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  cover  the  entire  subject  with  any 
manner  of  division  to  which  some  other  division  could  not 
be  added.  For  most  of  the  divisions  which  I have  chosen  — 
or  which  are  imposed  upon  me  by  the  facts  — the  whole 
number  of  subjects  might  often  be  inadequate. 

But,  to  use  an  antique  illustration,  if  one  corner  of  the  field 
is  adequately  described,  it  is  for  the  interested  reader  or 
student  to  find  out  for  himself  and  fill  the  others. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFACE vii 

CHAPTER 

I.  PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  — Part  One  3 

II.  PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  — Part  Two  17 

III.  WAR 31 

IV.  DREAMS  OF  HAPPINESS  ....  45 

V.  PORTRAITS  OF  CHILDREN  ....  61 

VI.  TRIUMPHS  — Part  One 75 

VII.  TRIUMPHS  — Part  Two 91 

VIII.  ALLEGORIES  — Part  One 105 

IX.  ALLEGORIES  — Part  Two 121 

X.  ALLEGORIES  — Part  Three  . . . . 137 

XI.  THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH  . 151 

XII.  UNKNOWN  PORTRAITS 169 

XIII.  PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  — Part  One  . 181 

XIV.  PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  — Part  Two  . 195 

XV.  THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  — Part  One  . 205 

XVI.  THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  — Part  Two  . 219 

XVII.  SACRED  CONVERSATIONS —Part  One  . 231 

XVIII.  SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  — Part  Two.  247 

XIX.  SACRED  CONVERSATIONS— Part  Three  267 

XX.  ANNUNCIATIONS  — Part  One  . ...  277 

XXI.  ANNUNCIATIONS  — Part  Two  . ...  291 

XXII.  THE  MADONNA  — Part  One  ....  305 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII.  THE  MADONNA  — Part  Two  ....  319 

XXIV.  THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS 

— Part  One 331 

X<XV.  THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS 

— Part  Two 339 


XXVI.  THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS 

— Part  Tree 347 

XXVII.  THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS 

— Part  Four 355 

XXVIII.  THE  STANZE  OF  THE  VATICAN  ...  361 

XXIX.  THE  BORGIA  ROOMS] — Part  One  . . 371 

XXX.  THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  — Part  Two  . . 383 

XXXI.  THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  — Part  Three  . 


395 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


REUNION  OF  THE  OFFICERS  OF  THE  ARCHERS  OF  ST.  ADRIEN.  FRANS  HALS  Frontispiece 

PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE 

FACING  PAGE 

THE  BANQUET  OF  THE  CIVIC  GUARD  OF  AMSTERDAM.  BARTHOLOMEUS  VAN  DER  HELST  4 
THE  NIGHT  WATCH.  REMBRANDT  ..........  12 

THE  REGENTS  OF  THE  HOME  OF  THE  AGED  AT  HAARLEM.  FRANS  HALS  ...  20 

THE  REGENTS  OF  THE  HOSPITAL  OF  ST.  ELIZABETH  AT  HAARLEM.  FRANS  HALS  . 22 

THE  SYNDICS  OF  THE  CLOTH  MERCHANTS  OF  AMSTERDAM.  REMBRANDT  ...  26 

WAR 

THE  SURRENDER  OF  BREDA.  VELASQUEZ .32 

THE  DEATH  OF  NELSON.  TURNER 40 

NAPOLEON  AT  THE  BATTLE  OF  EYLAU.  GROS  .40 

DREAMS  OF  HAPPINESS 

PASTORAL  CONCERT.  GIORGIONE .48 

THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE.  RUBENS  ..........  48 

TAKING  SHIP  FOR  CYTHERA.  WATTEAU  ........  56 

THE  LOVELY  LAND.  PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES 56 

PORTRAITS  OF  CHILDREN 

KO-BO-DAI-SHI . NOBUZANE 64 

THE  MAIDS  OF  HONOUR.  VELASQUEZ 64 

THE  INFANTE  DON  BALTHAZAR  CARLOS.  VELASQUEZ 68 

ST.  JOHN  THE  BAPTIST.  MURILLO. 68 

TRIUMPHS 

THE  GLORY  OF  VENICE.  VERONESE 76 

VENICE  ENTHRONED.  VERONESE  . . . . . . . . . .76 

THE  GLORY  OF  VENICE.  TINTORETTO  .........  80 

HENRY  IV  DECIDING  UPON  HIS  FUTURE  MARRIAGE.  RUBENS 92 

MARRIAGE  OF  HENRY  IV  AND  MARIE  DE  MEDICIS.  RUBENS 92 


XV 


XVI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING  PAGE 

MARIE  DE  MEDICIS  AT  PONT-DE-CE.  RUBENS  ........  96 

THE  ACCESSION  OF  LOUIS  XIII.  RUBENS  ........  100 

THE  TRIUMPHAL  ENTRY  OF  HENRY  IV  INTO  PARIS.  RUBENS  .....  100 

ALLEGORIES 

MYSTIC  MARRIAGE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE.  CORREGGIO 108, 

SPRING.  BOTTICELLI  ............  108 

THE  SHEPHERDS  OF  ARCADIA.  POUSSIN.  ........  116 

THE  STORY  OF  FERTILITY  (AN  OFFERING  TO  THE  GODDESS  OF  LOVE).  TITIAN  . . .124 

ECHO  AND  NARCISSUS.  POUSSIN  . . . . . . . . . .124 

ST.  ANTHONY  OF  PADUA.  MURILLO  .........  132 

ASTRONOMY  (THE  CHALDEAN  SHEPHERDS),  LYRIC  POETRY  (AESCHYLUS),  ELECTRICITY. 

PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES  ...........  140 

ST.  GENEVIEVE  WATCHING  OVER  PARIS.  PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES  ....  144 

PEACE.  PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES  ..........  144 

SLEEP.  PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES  ..........  144 

THE  FLEMISH  PRIMITIVES 

WORSHIP  OF  THE  LAMB  (CENTRAL  PANEL).  HUBERT  AND  JAN  VAN  EYCK  . .160 

WORSHIP  OF  THE  LAMB  (THE  TWO  LEFT  PANELS).  HUBERT  AND  JAN  VAN  EYCK  . 160 

WORSHIP  OF  THE  LAMB  (THE  TWO  RIGHT  PANELS).  HUBERT  AND  JAN  VAN  EYCK  . 160 

THE  VIRGIN  AND  CHILD,  ST.  DONATIAN  AND  CANON  VAN  DER  PAELEPROTECTED  BY  ST. 

GEORGE.  JAN  VAN  EYCK  ..........  164 

THE  MYSTIC  MARRIAGE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE  (CENTRAL  PANEL  OF  TRIPTYCH).  MEMLING  . 164 

UNKNOWN  PORTRAITS 

PORTRAIT  OF  A MAN.  MESSINA 170 

THE  CONDOTTIERE.  MESSINA  ..........  172 

PORTRAIT  OF  A MAN.  THOMAS  DE  KEYSER  ........  172 

EPHRAIM  BONUS.  REMBRANDT  ..........  176 

“THE  vOUNG  MAN  IN  BLACK.”  XVI  CENTURY  FLORENTINE  SCHOOL  . . . 176 

PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION 

CHARLES  I OF  ENGLAND.  VAN  DYCK  ...  184 

THE  INFANTA  ISABEL  CLARA  EUGENIA,  REGENT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS.  VAN  DYCK  184 
BEATRICE  DE  CUZANCE.  VAN  DYCK  .........  184 

HIS  PORTRAIT.  VAN  DYCK  . . . . . . . . . . .184 

MAHOMET  II.  BELLINI.  ...........  200 

LORD  HEATHFIELD.  REYNOLDS  ..........  200 

LADIES  DECORATING  A TERM  OF  HYMEN.  REYNOLDS  ......  200 

THE  MORNING  WALK.  GAINSBOROUGH  .........  200 

THE  BLUE  BOY.  GAINSBOROUGH  ......  . 200 

THE  HONOURABLE  MISTRESS  GRAHAM.  GAINSBOROUGH  ......  200 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


XVII 


FACING  PAGE 

MRS.  SIDDONS.  GAINSBOROUGH 200 

MASTER  LAMBTON.  LAWRENCE  200 

THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL 

DANTE  AND  VIRGIL  CROSSING  THE  STYX.  DELACROIX 208 

ABDUCTION  OF  REBECCA.  DELACROIX .212 

THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CIMBRI  AND  TEUTONS  BY  MARIUS.  DECAMPS  ....  220 

HAMLET  AND  THE  GRAVE  DIGGER.  DELACROIX  .......  224 

SACRED  CONVERSATIONS 

JESUS  CHRIST  AND  A DEVOTEE.  MORETTO  DA  BRESCIA  ......  236 

THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  FISH.  RAPHAEL.  236 

A SACRED  ALLEGORY.  BELLINI  ..........  240 

ST.  CECILIA.  RAPHAEL  ...........  248 

MADONNA  AND  ST.  JEROME.  CORREGGIO  ........  248 

MADONNA  AND  SAINTS.  MANTEGNA  .........  256 

ST.  BASIL  DICTATING  HIS  DOCTRINE.  HERRARA  .......  256 

THE  DISPUTE  ON  THE  TRINITY.  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO  ......  258 

THE  INFANT  JESUS  WITH  ST.  JOHN  AND  ANGELS.  RUBENS  .....  260 

MARRIAGE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE.  LOTTO  .........  268 

MADONNA,  CHILD,  TWO  SAINTS  AND  AN  ANGEL.  LOTTO  ......  270 

MADONNA,  CHILD,  ST.  JOHN  AND  ST.  CATHERINE.  TITIAN 272 

MADONNA,  CHILD,  AND  ST.  CATHERINE.  VAN  DYCK 272 

ANNUNCIATIONS 

ANNUNCIATION.  PISANO  ............  280 

AN  ANGEL  APPEARS  TO  ST.  URSULA.  SCHOOL  OF  COLOGNE  .....  280 

ANNUNCIATION.  FRA  ANGELICO  ..........  284 

ANNUNCIATION.  FIROENZO  DI  LORENZO  ........  292 

ANNUNCIATION.  FERRARI 296 

ANNOUNCING  TO  THE  VIRGIN  HER  COMING  DEATH.  LIPPI  .....  300 

THE  MADONNA 

MADONNA  OF  THE  ANNUNCIATION.  GIOTTO  DI  BONDONE  ......  310 

MADONNA  OF  THE  STAR.  FRA  ANGELICO  312 

MADONNA  AND  CHILD.  LIPPI  ...........  312 

MADONNA  AND  CHILD  AND  ST.  ANNE.  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 314 

MADONNA  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT.  BOTTICELLI  ........  320 

ADORATION  OF  THE  SHEPHERDS.  BOTTICELLI.  .......  320 

MADONNA  AND  CHILD,  SCULPTURE  .........  324 

THE  VIRGIN  ADORING  THE  INFANT  CHRIST.  CORREGGIO 324 

PORTRAITS  OF  SADNESS 

PENCIL  PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF.  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI  ......  332 

PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF.  REMBRANDT  .........  332 


xviii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF.  TITIAN 

PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF.  MICHELANGELO 

PORTRAIT  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN.  LOTTO  (IMPERIAL  MUSEUM) 

PORTRAIT  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN.  LOTTO.  (BORGHESE  GALLERY)  . 

PORTRAIT  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN.  LOTTO.  (DORIA  GALLERY) 

JULIUS  n.  RAPHAEL  ......... 

SIXTUS  IV  GIVING  AUDIENCE.  MELOZZO  DA  FORLI 

THE  MASS  OF  BOLSENA.  RAPHAEL  ...... 

HEAD  OF  POPE  JULIUS  II.  FROM  “THE  MASS  OF  BOLSENA.”  RAPHAEL 


FACING  PAGE 

. 332 

. 332 

. 340 

. 340 

. 340 

. 348 

. 348 

1 . 348 

. 348 


THE  STANZE  OF  THE  VATICAN 


HELIODORUS  CAST  OUT  OF  THE  TEMPLE.  RAPHAEL  . 

POPE  JULIUS  II.  FROM  “HELIODORUS  CAST  OUT  OF  THE  TEMPLE.”  RAPHAEL  . 
HELIODORUS  CAST  OUT  OF  THE  TEMPLE.  DELACROIX  . 

THE  BORGIA  ROOMS 


. 362 

. 362 

. 362 


THE  RESURRECTION.  PINTURICCHIO . 

ALEXANDER  VI.  FROM  “THE  RESURRECTION.”  PINTURICCHIO  ..... 

HEAD  OF  ALEXANDER  VI.  FROM  “THE  RESURRECTION.”  PINTURICCHIO 

THE  DISPUTE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE.  PINTURICCHIO  ....... 

ST.  CATHERINE  FROM  “THE  DISPUTE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE.”  PINTURICCHIO 

DJEM  AND  PALEOLOGOS,  FROM  “THE  DISPUTE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE.”  PINTURICCHIO 

PERSONAGES  FROM  “THE  DISPUTE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE.”  PINTURICCHIO 

THE  ANNUNCIATION.  PINTURICCHIO  ......... 

THE  VIRGIN  AND  ANGEL  FROM  “THE  ANNUNCIATION.”  PINTURICCHIO 


372 

372 

372 

384 

384 

384 

384 

396 

396 


ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 


I 

PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  — PART  ONE 


These  paintings  are  representations  of  the  civic  life  of  a 
republican  nation,  a nation  largely  of  traders,  who  freed  their 
little  country  in  the  protracted  struggle  against  the  greatest 
powers  of  the  world,  and  whose  art  mainly  consists  in  the 
portraiture  of  their  citizens  and  the  landscape  in  which  they 
lived.  It  should  be  eminently  interesting  to  us  because 
in  many  ways  we  are  the  representatives  of  their  ideas  and 
we  derive  from  them  certain  influences.  The  art  of  Holland 
during  this  time  of  intense  struggle  has  almost  no  representa- 
tion of  the  scenes  of  war  and  of  final  triumph.  But  we  have 
the  personal  records  of  the  men  who  carried  out  this  great 
resistance  to  its  final  end.  When  a scene  is  represented,  it 
is  one  of  peace.  The  daily,  the  private,  the  domestic  habits 
were  the  subjects  of  the  painters,  notwithstanding,  or  to  the 
exclusion  of  what  made  the  anxiety  and  the  grandeur  of  their 
country.  The  landscapes,  in  the  same  way,  are  all  of  peace. 
The  roads  seem  safe,  and  open-air  pleasures  keep  their 

course.  Hunting  and  fishing  seem  uninterrupted;  no  war 

s 


4 ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
disturbs  the  villages.  The  weather  is  all  that  changes  the 
even  course  of  life.  Meanwhile,  on  the  farthest  seas,  war  is 
carried,  continuous  invasions  are  the  rule;  within  goes  on  a 
perpetual  political  struggle,  increased  by  religious  discord. 
Barneveldt  is  decapitated  in  1619,  and  the  brothers  De  Witt 
are  massacred  in  1672.  War  is  permanent  with  England, 
and  the  Dutch  fleet  threatens  the  existence  of  London;  Spain 
and  France  attack  Holland  and  invade  it.  Within  fifty  years 
three  treaties  of  peace  have  to  be  signed  — 1648,  1678,  1698 
— and  the  great  war  of  the  Spanish  succession  begins  the 
next  century;  and  nowhere  do  the  paintings  show  in  outward 
expression  that  the  permanent  news  has  always  been  of  war. 
Now,  in  these  pictures  of  peace,  of  jovial  contentment,  we 
see  the  portraits  of  the  men  who  carried  out  this  patriotic 
struggle.  We  know  they  are  military  men,  more  or  less,  by 
some  portion  of  their  costume,  by  the  presence  of  sword  or 
flag,  and,  of  course,  by  the  record  of  who  they  were.  But 
they  are  militiamen.  And  these  pictures  assert  for  us  what 
we  rarely  think  of : that  the  standing  army  is  a modern  inven- 
tion and  was  feared  as  an  engine  of  despotism  by  the  free 
towns  and  the  freer  countries.  Even  as  late  as  1742  the  great 
warrior,  Maurice  of  Saxony,  writes  out,  as  a dream,  the 
modern  notion  of  the  army  made  up  of  the  citizens  in  stated 
length  of  service.  All  the  more,  as  I say,  is  it  pleasant  to 


BARTHOLOMEUS  VAN  DER  HELST 

THE  BANQUET  OF  THE  CIVIC  GUARD  OF  AMSTERDAM  (ON  JUNE  18th,  1648,  IN 
CELEBRATION  OF  THE  CONCLUSION  OF  THE  PEACE  OF  MUNSTER) 

RIJKS  MUSEUM,  AMSTERDAM 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  5 

know  that  these  country  fellows  are  painted  for  us  before 
or  after  the  service  to  which  they  were  called.  In  one  case 
their  banquet  occurs  before  their  departure  from  Haarlem  for 
the  sieges  of  Hasselt  and  Mons,  the  eighteenth  of  October,  1622. 
If  ever  serene  confidence  was  represented,  it  is  told  in  these 
faces  and  attitudes,  and  their  jovial  enjoyment  has  also  no 
sign  of  recklessness  or  disorderly  forgetting.  A certain  so- 
briety persists  through  all  the  faces;  most  of  them  look  like 
business  men,  whose  types  we  still  have  with  us,  who  will 
be  ready  at  a moment  to  take  up  their  steady  work.  Mean- 
while, they  are  together  as  friends,  and  good-fellowship 
relaxes  faces  which  at  other  times  must  be  fairly  serious. 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  give  all  these  paintings  as  they 
hang  together  on  the  wall,  each  one  affirming  the  accuracy  of 
the  others,  having  altogether  a family  air,  that  look  which 
belongs  to  any  given  moment  when  people  not  only  dress  the 
same  way  but  seem  to  conform  to  some  special  manner  of 
look  and  bearing.  Perhaps  I had  better  choose  the  one  whose 
merits  as  painting  are  perhaps  the  greatest,  for  the  dates  of 
these  pictures  run  along  for  many  years,  from  Frans  Hals, 
beginning  to  paint  beautifully,  to  a Hals  whose  execution  is 
as  wonderful  as  that  of  the  greatest.  Around  him  in  Holland 
others  paint  well,  and  the  great  Rembrandt  is  painting  so 
as  to  reach  the  highest  levels.  Surrounded  by  all  this  con- 


6 ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
summate  work,  Hals  still  triumphs,  and  a something  not 
Dutch,  something  that  he  might  have  brought  from  his  native 
Flanders,  gives  to  the  paintings  a look  of  enjoyment,  of  colour, 
of  delight  in  the  coursing  of  life  which  reminds  one  more  of 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  Low  Countries  than  of  the  phlegmatic 
attitude  of  Holland.  The  photograph  is  there  for  us  to  look 
at,  and  it  tells  better  than  I can  why  John  Cassz  Loo  is  Col- 
onel, as  he  sits  facing  us  in  the  post  of  honour,  to  be  painted, 
surrounded  by  the  flag-bearers,  two  of  whom  are  Jacob 
Holland  and  Jacob  Styn,  the  latter  facing  us  also.  No  photo- 
graph can  give  the  glory  of  Captain  John  Schatter,  who  turns 
half  toward  us,  gently  smiling,  as  if  posing  only  for  a moment, 
clad  in  red  and  yellow,  with  most  astonishing  sash  of  blue 
satin.  Indeed,  all  the  stuffs  are  wonderful,  the  lightness  of 
the  ruffs,  the  heavy  darkness  of  the  velvets,  all  painted  just 
enough,  not  a trifle  more  than  they  should  be,  so  that  the 
varying  matters  represented  has  each  its  right  importance, 
that  nothing  of  all  this  show  shall  prevent  your  following 
out  each  portrait,  understanding  the  character  of  each  man, 
and  the  completeness  of  his  expression  in  what  he  is  doing.  As, 
for  instance,  Captain  Van  Horn’s  abstraction  in  being  painted, 
or  looked  at  by  us,  prevents  his  noticing  how  Lieutenant 
Olycan  is  asking  him  to  sign  the  register  whose  leaves  are 
turned  over  with  gentle  impatience  by  Captain  Bacher. 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  7 

How  well  we  know  the  anxious  faces  of  Sergeant  Cornelius 
Ham  in  the  middle,  and  Sergeant  Barent  Mol  on  the  right, 
who  are  waiting  to  be  heard  or  to  take  some  part.  How 
sure  I feel  that  I have  seen  them  but  yesterday  here  in  New 
York.  If  not  they,  then  their  descendants;  and  how  indiffer- 
ent (as  indeed  it  is)  the  eye  of  the  camera  to  what  really 
makes  the  meaning  of  a face.  And  I confess  to  a pleasure  in 
repeating  these  names  of  what  must  have  been  a good  lot  of 
men,  who  once  upon  a time  held  their  own  against  great  odds 
and  knew  also  what  were  the  pleasures  of  belonging  to  the 
famous  company  of  militiamen,  the  Archers  of  St.  Adrian. 

Once  upon  a time  another  painting  was  more  famous  than 
those  of  Hals’s  — a similar  subject  — a banquet  of  the  Civic 
Guard  of  Amsterdam,  which  took  place  on  the  sixteenth  of 

June,  1648,  in  the  great  hall  of  St.  George  Doelen  to  celebrate 

% 

the  conclusion  of  peace  at  Munster.  It  was  painted  by  Bar- 
tholomeus  Van  der  Heist,  who,  though  not  a great  man,  has 
managed  to  do  this  work  in  such  a way  as  to  challenge  all 
rivals.  It  is  not  beautifully  painted,  like  those  paintings  of 
Hals’s,  but  it  could  not  be,  it  is  so  conscientious,  so  really 
understood  as  a problem  of  making  a big  picture  of  many 
portraits  and  of  skipping  none,  and  of  making  each  contribute 
to  the  play  as  he  does  to  the  banquet.  As  Thackeray  once 
said:  44 Brave,  meritorious,  victorious,  happy  Bartholomeus, 


8 ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
to  whom  it  has  been  given  to  produce  a masterpiece.”  Part 
of  its  fame  is  owing  certainly  to  its  having  been  for  years  in 
a little  room  whose  side  it  filled,  just  opposite  the  great  Rem- 
brandt known  as  the  “ Night-Watch.”  Perhaps  the  prosaic 
side  of  the  Van  der  Heist  made  more  mysterious  the  other- 
wise evident  meaning  of  the  Rembrandt.  For  all  that, 
it  is  a beautiful  essay  in  prose  alongside  of  which,  if  they 
could  be  put  together,  the  paintings  of  Hals  would  look  like 
triumphant  songs.  But  within  the  rather  sober  unity,  how 
charming  are  its  details.  On  the  right-hand  side  of  the  table 
Captain  Wits,  in  health  and  good  humour,  holds  the  hand 
of  Lieutenant  Van  Waveren,  more  delicate  of  build  and 
colour,  whose  whiter  hand  rests  genily  on  the  heavier  one  of 
the  captain.  He  is  dressed  in  black  velvet,  and,  like  many 
others  in  the  fashion  of  the  day,  he  has  not  taken  off  his 
broad-brimmed  hat  with  the  white  plume.  On  his  knee  he 
holds  the  great  official  drinking-horn,  which  will  soon  pass 
around  the  table  for  a loving-cup.  The  captain  is  perhaps 
beginning  his  complimentary  speech;  I fancy  that  I detect 
on  the  lips  of  Lieutenant  Van  Waveren  that  tremulousness 
which  attends  the  listener  about  to  answer:  some  of  the 
diners  are  listening  — those  who  are  nearest  to  the  head  of 
the  table.  Farther  on  the  necessities  of  food  and  drink  are 
looked  after.  These  gentlemen  help  each  other  and  them- 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  9 

selves.  The  long  glasses  are  being  filled  with  Rhenish  for 
the  toast  now  in  order.  “ William,  the  Drummer,”  with  his 
hat  off,  holding  a great  goblet,  the  company’s  property,  stands 
in  front,  to  the  left,  bowing  gently,  in  some  consultation  with 
the  officer  who,  in  front  of  us,  cuts,  or  has  been  cutting, 
slices  from  a knuckle  of  ham.  His  napkin  is  on  his  knee  — 
he  holds  his  meat  with  bare  fingers,  but  with  the  daintiness 
of  the  gentleman.  In  the  middle  of  the  picture,  his  back 
turned  to  the  company,  right  near  to  William’s  great  drum, 
sits,  in  black  velvet,  with  his  breast-plate  on,  the  standard- 
bearer,  Jacob  Banning.  Fastened  to  the  drum  is  a sheet 
of  paper,  for  which  the  poet,  Jan  Vos,  wrote  the  five  lines 
inscribed: 

Blood  now  disgusts  Bellona 

And  Mars  curses  the  noise  of  destructive  bronze; 

The  sword  now  seeks  the  scabbard, 

And  that  is  why  brave  Wits  offers  to  noble 

Van  Waveren  the  cup  of  peace  to  celebrate  perpetual  alliance. 

Behind  Banning,  balanced  by  his  left  hand,  the  great  flag 
of  the  company  rises  out  of  the  picture  and  divides  it  in  two 
parts;  it  is  of  blue  silk  and  on  it  is  embroidered  the  Virgin, 
emblematic  of  the  city  of  Amsterdam.  You  remember  how 
Thackeray  says  of  it:  “Such  a silk!  such  a flag!  such  a piece 
of  painting!”  How  true  must  have  been  these  portraits 
strikes  the  most  careless  observer;  each  man  is  a portrait 


10  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
all  the  way  through,  from  the  expression  of  his  eyes  to  the 
smallest  detail  of  his  dress.  And,  as  we  said,  that  was  the 
problem  — to  paint  a picture  of  many  portraits,  each  one 
complete,  so  that  each  owner  who  had  paid  his  share  could 
feel  that  he  had  not  been  neglected,  that  he  had  had  his  full 
money’s  worth,  and  that,  whoever  he  was  — mere  sergeant 
or  first  lieutenant  — he  had  been  represented  by  himself  and 
for  himself.  It  is  no  wonder  that  there  are  so  few  of  these 
many  pictures  of  military  or  other  companies  in  which 
the  problem  has  been  successfully  met.  With  those  few, 
Frans  Hals’s  and  this  painting,  we  shall  have  seen  all  the 
great  successes. 

The  great  Rembrandt  which  hangs  nearby,  the  so-called 
“Night-Watch,”  is  not  successful  in  a similar  way,  and  yet 
it  is  known  as  one  of  the  greatest  paintings  in  the  world. 
It  is  said  that  long  ago  it  displeased  the  men  for  whom  it 
was  painted,  and  began  to  place  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
Rembrandt’s  being  understood.  Captain  Frans  Banning 
Cocq,  Lord  of  Purmerland  and  Ilpendam,  the  captain  of  the 
company  of  militia  here  portrayed,  the  gentleman  in  black 
who  steps  forward  toward  us  in  the  middle  of  the  picture, 
had  his  portrait  painted  later  by  Bartholomeus  Van  der 
Heist  — perhaps  an  indication  of  the  general  feeling  that 
each  individual  portrait  was  not  sufficiently  distinct.  None 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  11 

of  the  men  whose  names  are  inscribed  in  the  tablet  upon  the 
wall  could  have  had  an  idea  or  could  have  guessed  that  their 
being  painted  by  Rembrandt  would  be  all  that  could  remain 
about  them.  But,  on  their  part,  there  was  a reason  for  their 
disappointment.  They  remembered  the  painting  known  as 
the  “ Lesson  in  Anatomy/’  in  which  each  portrait  is  separately 
insisted  upon,  and  some  of  Rembrandt’s  great  portraits  had 
already  been  made.  But  already  the  artist  had  begun  to  see 
in  nature  those  mysterious  means  by  which  we  know  him 
best:  that  swathing  of  the  entire  scene  in  the  gradations  of 
light  and  dark,  out  of  which  he  merged  what  he  wished  to  be 
seen  and  in  which  he  bathed  or  even  drowned  what  he  wished 
only  to  be  guessed  at.  The  subject  of  many  people  together 
was  a fortunate  chance  for  use  of  this  beautiful  method; 
and  so  the  picture  instead  of  the  distinct  vision,  almost  too 
orderly,  by  which  Van  der  Heist  or  Hals  gives  us  every  detail, 
is  partly  covered  by  shadow  and  partly  lit  suddenly.  So  that 
long  ago  tradition  gave  it  the  name  of  the  “ Night-Watch,” 
and  about  it  clustered  mysterious  meanings  which  never 
could  have  come  about  the  clear  stories  of  other  Dutch 
artists.  In  reality,  putting  aside  the  paint’s  darkening,  it  is 
an  effect  of  sunlight;  and  the  gloom  of  the  shadow  might  well 
represent  the  veiled  darkness  of  the  brown  fog  of  Amsterdam. 

The  company,  headed  by  Captain  Cocq,  are  leaving  their 


12  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
meeting  place  — what  might  be  called  their  armory  — for 
a shooting  match.  Instead  of  the  military  suggestions,  the 
records  of  war  which  accompany  the  paintings  of  Hals  and 
of  Van  der  Heist  — the  jolly  meeting  of  men  who  have  just 
fought  and  may  be  called  out  again  — this  mysterious  pic- 
ture is  a record  of  piping  times  of  peace.  The  romance 
that  fills  it  is  the  painter’s  own.  The  story  might  well  rep- 
resent a sudden  call  to  arms.  Perhaps  in  the  depths  of 
Rembrandt’s  extraordinary  mind  he  may  have  been  pleased 
to  confuse  the  two  occasions.  The  drummer  rolls  out  his  call, 
the  ensign  unfurls  the  big  flag,  the  men  load  or  prime  their 
guns,  and  the  pikemen  carry  out  the  long  halberds  which 
belong  to  their  place  in  the  company.  Lieutenant  William 
Van  Ruijtenberg,  Lord  of  Vlaardingen,  the  little  man  in 
light  yellow,  listens  to  the  captain’s  explanation,  which 
seems  important  — very  important  — for  such  a small  matter 
as  a shooting  match.  The  officers  commanding  are  in  their 
best.  The  buff  coat  of  the  lieutenant  is  embroidered  in 
gold,  his  great  sash  is  white,  his  trunk  hose  are  tied  up  with 
ribbon;  he  wears  gold  spurs  on  his  gray  boots,  and  yellow 
gloves;  his  hat  of  yellow  felt  is  bound  by  a band  of  precious 
stones,  and  long  white  plumes  float  beyond  it;  he  and  the 
captain  are  all-important.  Behind  them  the  troop  of  arque- 
buse  men  come  out  from  the  dark  arcade;  one  of  them  is 


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PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  13 

all  in  scarlet,  with  an  orange  plume  in  his  purplish  hat.  His 
powder  horn  is  carried  by  a boy.  Beyond  the  drummer 
(John  Van  Kanpoort),  one  of  the  sergeants,  a serious-faced 
officer,  stretches  out  a hand  as  if  to  order.  Vaguely  behind 
these  we  see  others  are  coming.  The  light,  which  falls  with 
strong  shadows  on  a few  figures  here  and  there,  lights  up  with 
singular  accidental  effect  the  little  girl  who  is  carrying, 
singularly  enough,  a dead  fowl  slung  to  her  waist.  Her  hair,  of 
that  mysterious  golden  tone  liked  by  Rembrandt,  is  crowned 
with  precious  stones;  pearls  are  in  her  ears,  and  stones  again 
glitter  on  her  belt  and  on  her  greenish-yellow  cape.  Be- 
tween her  and  the  captain  appears  the  bent  body  of  a boy 
with  leaf -crowned  helmet,  of  whom  we  see  little  but  his  out- 
stretched leg;  this  motion  of  his  and  the  light  form  of  the 
little  girl  are  striking  parts  of  the  entire  picture;  they  prob- 
ably served  in  the  painter’s  mind  to  give  a look  of  chance 
— as  if  just  then  a drop  of  light  had  fallen  in  that  special 
place,  without  regard  to  the  more  important  features  of  the 
story.  The  great  man  must  have  known  what  he  wished 
to  do.  And  he  has  succeeded  in  impressing  the  imagination 
of  many  people  for  these  two  centuries  and  a half,  so  that  the 
painting  remains  a fantastic  story  and  image  of  those  dreams 
in  which  he  indulged,  and  in  which  he  placed  the  realism  of 
an  ordinary  event.  The  story  would  be  clearer  if  the  picture 


14  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
were  to-day  what  it  once  was.  We  should  see  better  why 
the  captain  and  the  lieutenant  step  forward  and  where  the 
rest  of  the  company  are  placed.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  to  fit  the  picture  in  a new  place,  a part 
of  it  was  cut  away  which  contained  the  little  bridge  over 
which  the  officers  were  to  step  first.  And  on  the  sides  we 
should  see  two  figures  more  and  the  whole  portrait  of  the 
drummer,  John  Van  Kanpoort.  There  can  be  but  little 
doubt  that  we  miss  extremely  the  foreground  cut  away. 
The  two  foremost  figures  seem  to  be  too  much  set  out  of  the 
picture,  and  Rembrandt  is  too  subtle  not  to  have  meant 
exactly  what  he  did.  The  picture  has  been  somewhat  dam- 
aged, at  a previous  time  being  in  better  order.  It  is  not  all 
throughout  painted  as  Rembrandt  has  elsewhere  triumphed. 
The  moment  for  him  was  one  of  transition.  Perhaps  at  that 
moment  he  may  have  felt  the  impressions  of  those  business 
disasters  which  ruined  him;  perhaps,  in  this  bold  emprise 
of  creating  a new  form  of  art  with  the  materials  around  him, 
he  felt  the  technical  difficulties  that  belong  to  beginnings. 

Therefore,  this  great  masterpiece  is  made  up  of  many  fail- 
ures; in  that,  not  so  different  from  others  of  the  greatest.  All 
the  more  may  we  feel  how  mysterious  is  the  phenomenon  that 
we  call  “ inspiration.”  How  the  mere  work  of  the  human 
hand  can  take  us  away  from  reality  into  the  world  of  romance ! 


II 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  — PART  TWO 


1664  — Frans  Hals,  who  painted  so  joyfully  the  gay  com- 
panies of  militiamen,  some  few  years  back,  is  now  over 
eighty  years  old  and  has  only  two  more  years  to  live.  It 
is  fitting  that  he  should  paint  the  old  ladies  who  are  the 
Regents  of  the  Home  for  the  Aged  at  Haarlem.  These  are 
their  portraits.  They  lose  ever  so  much  in  the  photographs, 
which  cannot  give  us  the  extraordinary  refinement  which 
he  has  perceived  and  made  us  feel  in  the  painting  of  these 
sober  and  even  austere  dresses.  The  whites  and  blacks  have 
all  the  elegance  of  a beautiful  choice  of  colours.  The  elderly 
painter’s  touch  is  no  longer  supple  and  caressing  as  it  once 
was  in  younger  days  — it  has  become  a little  impatient  of 
time,  but  it  still  renders  character,  and,  in  this  particular 
case,  in  the  rendering  of  the  subject,  a long  experience  of 
life,  the  putting  aside  of  frivolity,  is  told  by  the  painter’s 
manner,  even  as  he  must  have  seen  it  in  the  old  ladies  here 
presented.  Their  hands,  each  one  of  which  is  indicative  of 
character  and  of  what  they  may  be  saying  and  listening  to, 
are  now  bony  and  shrivelled  or  knotted.  A certain  slowness 
of  movement  one  feels  in  the  few  that  have  much  to  do. 


17 


18  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
The  lady  on  the  left  who  is  speaking  to  the  visitors,  I suppose; 
the  old  dame  in  the  centre  who  ruffles  her  fan  calmly  over  the 
bag  containing  money  perhaps,  or  the  medals  which  are 
proofs  of  attendance,  and  the  servant  bringing  a memoran- 
dum, each  move  in  a rhythm  of  patience  and  carefulness. 
The  unoccupied  hands  are  folded  back  as  if  taking  a rest. 
As  for  the  faces,  we  know  each  type;  we  know  which  are  severe 
and  which  are  gentle,  and  that  they  are  observant  one  of 
the  other.  Accident  seems  to  have  placed  them  about  the 
table  at  which  they  sit,  but  the  painter  has  so  combined 
them  that  they  make  something  like  a chord  of  lines,  or 
blacks  and  whites,  beautiful  in  its  peaceful  harmony. 

Some  years  back,  in  1641,  one  year  before  Rembrandt 
painted  what  we  call  the  “ Night-Watch/5  Frans  Hals  had 
painted  the  “ Regents  of  the  Hospital  of  St.  Elizabeth.” 
For  some  reason  probably,  though  it  seems  mere  chance,  the 
Regents  about  their  table  recall  a little  in  arrangement 
the  seating  of  the  “Syndics”  in  Rembrandt’s  great  picture. 
However  splendid  and  important  they  are,  they  have  yet, 
in  all  their  wonderful  painting,  a slight  reminiscence  of  the 
lightness  of  heart  of  the  brave  boys,  the  militiamen,  whom 
Hals  painted  as  we  saw  some  years  before  — but  they  are 
seriously  painted.  The  portrait  is  evident  behind  the  action 
of  each  man.  That  must  have  been  the  way  that  each  one 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  19 

used  when  speaking  or  arguing,  and  one  forgets  almost  that 
they  are  in  reality  nothing  but  gentlemen’s  portraits.  They 
might  be  part  of  some  historic  event,  and  their  discussion 
be  the  meeting  of  some  government  cabinet,  some  ambassa- 
dors settling  a state  matter.  All  honour  to  them;  notwith- 
standing the  richness  of  their  dress  and  the  picturesqueness 
of  hair  and  beard,  and  wide-brimmed  hats,  they  are  types 
of  the  men  who  made  New  Amsterdam  and  whose  descend- 
ants we  have  about  us.  As  we  see  more  and  more  of  the 
Dutch  portraits  of  a later  date  than  these,  they  give  us  more 
and  more  an  impression  of  sedateness.  The  types  of  the 
warrior,  of  the  adventurer,  which  mark  the  backward  history, 
are  less  and  less  frequent  later.  It  would  seem  as  if  they 
had  been  eaten  up  by  the  action  demanded  of  these  people, 
and  that  the  more  sedentary,  the  more  prudent  types,  re- 
mained. Could  we  gather  here,  as  explanatory,  other  por- 
traits of  Hals,  we  should  see  still  more  personal  indepen- 
dence and  self-assertion,  amounting  to  bravado.  And  the 
gay,  almost  impudent  portrait  of  the  painter  himself,  at 
Amsterdam,  where  he  sits  in  the  garden  beside  his  second 
wife,  is  the  climax  of  the  expression  of  a joyful  temperament. 
Something  of  that  joy  perhaps  went  into  most  of  his  repre- 
sentations. In  the  last  paintings  of  his  old  age  he  has  come 
himself  to  a more  sober  sense.  Of  his  life  and  that  of  Van 


20  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
der  Heist  we  have  little  but  what  is  merely  external.  No 
such  legends  compass  them  as  those  about  the  story  of  him 
whom  Thackeray  has  called  “The  Moody  Tenant  of  the 
Mill” — Rembrandt.  We  know  to-day  that  they  were  all 
made  up  of  jealous  hearsay,  from  the  necessity  of  accounting 
by  strange  anecdotes  for  the  otherwise  sober  existence  of 
genius. 

The  romance,  the  extraordinary  reach  of  sympathy  in  all 
directions  of  Rembrandt’s  painting,  seems  to  justify  some 
manufacture  of  imaginary  anecdotes:  something  to  carry 
on  the  legend  of  the  eccentricities  of  genius,  as  if  genius  were 
not  in  itself  sublimated  common  sense.  And  as  if  also  the 
creator  of  imaginary  situations  or  the  observer  and  recorder 
of  the  vicissitudes  of  life  must  also  be  a victim,  a subject,  of 
similar  emotions.  Better  knowledge  shows  us  that  art  is 
the  manner  of  a reasonable  outpouring  of  sentiment  where 
it  should  be  placed  — that  is  to  say,  within  the  limits  of  an 
imaginary  world.  We  can  see  the  great  example  of  this  more 
prosaic  but  certain  view  in  what  we  know  of  Shakespeare: 
a mind  not  so  far  apart  from  Rembrandt’s  and  capable, 
like  Rembrandt’s,  of  using  romance  for  reality  and  reality 
for  romance.  And  we  forget  too  easily  that  such  men  have 
not  worked  merely  to  please  themselves,  to  establish  for  the 
outside  world  some  manner  of  looking  at  it,  but  that  in  the 


FRANS  HALS 

THE  REGENTS  OF  THE  HOME  OF  THE  AGED  AT  HAARLEM  (IN  1664) 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  21 

most  ordinary  way  they  worked  within  their  trade,  doing 
what  was  asked  of  them;  but  informing  that  task-work  with 
the  passion,  the  sympathies,  that  life  had  called  up  within 
them,  and  which  their  memory  placed  inside  the  framework 
of  the  task.  In  the  school  days  of  the  older  ones  of  us  these 
legends  still  continued  concerning  Rembrandt.  That  they 
were  strange,  and  not  only  did  not  explain,  but  often  con- 
tradicted what  facts  were  known,  seemed  to  have  made  no 
difference.  It  was  said  that  at  the  very  beginning  of  his 
life,  with  his  first  one  hundred  florins,  he  became  a miser. 
That  would  account  for  the  fact  that  during  succeeding  mo- 
ments of  his  life  neither  his  dress  nor  his  table  showed  his 
opulence.  The  constant  pursuit  of  painting  at  all  moments 
of  happiness  or  distress  was  used  as  a proof  that  he  lost  not 
a moment,  from  the  love  of  gold.  Could  there  be  another 
reason  for  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  paintings,  the  three 
hundred  and  seventy  engravings,  and  the  multitude  of  draw- 
ings which  are  the  result  of  his  life?  Hence,  also  from  his 
enormous  work,  the  belief  that  he  must  always  have  worked 
easily,  while  we  of  the  trade  know  by  the  marks  of  his  brush 
how  often  he  stuttered  or  stammered,  by  expression  of  new 
truth  or  anxiety  for  better  statement  of  what  he  knew  already. 
Thus,  every  little  while,  he  risked  to  some  extent  his  reputation 
by  some  new  manner  of  painting,  while  the  old  manner  had  all 


22  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
the  needed  purchasers.  He  was  supposed  to  have  married  a 
poor  girl,  another  proof  of  avarice,  while,  on  the  contrary,  he 
had  married  well  and  later  managed  to  spend  unconsciously 
the  fortune  of  his  wife,  besides  what  he  had  acquired  himself. 
He  was  said  to  have  bidden  up  his  own  engravings  at  auc- 
tions, or  to  have  given  them  to  his  son  to  sell,  with  the  state- 
ment that  they  had  been  stolen.  It  was  said  that  he  had 
disappeared,  this  hidden  man,  and  had  sent  abroad  the  news 
of  his  death,  to  use  the  only  sure  method  that  artists  have  to 
earn  much  money . Then  the  forced  sale  of  his  paintings  and 
studio  effects  had  brought  him  a fabulous  sum,  and  the  dead 
man  had  appeared  again  among  the  astonished  purchasers. 
And  his  admirers  apologized  for  this  ingenious  proceeding 
by  the  natural  statement  that  nobody  had  lost,  and  that 
things  were  worth  what  they  would  bring  in  the  market. 
We  know,  of  course,  to-day,  that  he  saw  his  paintings  and 
his  household  goods  and  his  rich  collections  sold  for  a trifle, 
and  that  he  returned  to  hard  work  in  his  later  age,  protected 
from  creditors  by  the  receivership  of  his  son.  His  singular 
use  of  Eastern  costumes  for  Eastern  subjects  was  supposed 
to  be  the  result  of  ignorance,  while  we  know  that  his  collec- 
tions were  composed  of  pictures  and  engravings  by  others, 
so  that  he  had  within  his  studio,  without  going  any  farther, 
the  images  of  what  had  been  done  in  ways  not  suitable  to 


FRANS  HALS 

THE  REGENTS  OF  THE  HOSPITAL  OF  ST.  ELIZABETH  AT  HAARLEM  (IN  1641) 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  23 

himself.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  made  curious  studies  of 
far-away  costumes  and  manners,  beyond  the  men  of  his  day. 
He  no  more  erred  than  have  done  those  who  used  what 
information  they  could  get.  It  was  even  a reproach  to  him 
that  he  charged  for  his  teaching,  and  that,  like  every  one 
else  about  him,  his  pupils  helped  him  in  his  work.  What  is 
true  is:  that  he  passed  from  romantic  handling  of  facts  to 
the  most  accurate  transcription  of  life.  And  that  occasion- 
ally, as  we  saw  in  the  analysis  of  the  “Night-Watch,”  he 
may  have  risked  a great  deal  in  the  choice  of  the  moment. 
In  the  art  of  writing  we  see  how  natural  this  is,  and  we  do 
not  ask  of  the  “Tempest”  or  “Midsummer  Night’s  Dream” 
the  accuracy  of  the  historical  play.  In  the  painting  of  the 
“Syndics”  we  shall  see  Rembrandt  the  recorder  of  usual 
nature,  and  test  him  alongside  of  Frans  Hals  as  the  painter 
of  the  history  of  Holland  seen  in  portraits. 

Nothing  more  could  be  said  to  express  the  ancestral  char- 
acter in  its  every-day  gravity  than  this  other  painting  by 
Rembrandt,  painted  three  years  before  Hals  painted  those 
last  ones  of  his  old  age.  Rembrandt  is  no  longer  young. 
He  has  eight  more  years  to  live,  and  he  paints  the  corporation 
piece  known  as  the  “Syndics  of  the  Cloth  Merchants  of 
Amsterdam.”  By  the  Dutch  it  is  called  “De  Staalmeesters  ” 
— “The  Stampmasters”  — who  affixed  a mark  to  certify  the 


24  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
origin  of  the  cloth  and  the  payment  of  certain  duties.  The 
figures  in  the  picture  are  the  size  of  life.  Placed  at  its  exact 
height,  it  has  an  extraordinary  appearance  of  something  seen. 
The  syndics  are  five  in  number.  Three  of  them  are  seated 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  which  is  covered  by  a heavy 
Eastern  carpet,  most  beautifully  painted,  but  absolutely 
unobtrusive.  One  needs  to  watch  it  to  perceive  the  accuracy 
of  the  rendering,  which  disturbs  one  no  more  than  nature 
itself.  One  of  the  syndics  on  the  right,  seated  somewhat 
crossways  to  the  table  and  less  important  in  the  deliberation, 
has  placed  upon  the  table,  with  a momentary  gesture,  a bag, 
containing  the  stamps  most  probably.  Before  the  other 
two  is  an  open  register.  Of  these  two,  one  turns  gently,  or, 
rather,  is  ready  to  turn  over  one  of  the  leaves.  The  other 
one,  with  hand  reversed,  explains,  apparently,  some  point  in 
the  record.  All  three  behind  the  table,  with  expressions  va- 
ried by  individual  character  and  their  relation  to  the  busi- 
ness on  hand,  look  toward  their  fellows,  or  whoever  they  are 
(and  of  which  we  are  a part),  outside  of  the  frame.  The  argu- 
ment is  partly  addressed  to  us.  One  can  almost  imagine  a 
feeling  of  impatience  in  the  features  of  the  syndic  who  holds 
the  sack  with  the  stamps;  and  so,  for  each  one,  the  movement 
of  the  eye  and  the  eyebrow  represents  as  nearly  as  has  ever 
been  rendered  the  slight  variations  of  thought  which  our 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  25 

common  intentions  must  have.  However  direct  the  look  of 
the  eyes,  which  with  Rembrandt  at  his  best  are  always  extra- 
ordinary as  to  meaning,  the  look  is  a general  one  addressed 
to  a great  many  people.  The  fourth  syndic  is  an  older  man, 
who  rises  slowly  from  his  chair,  on  the  left  of  the  table,  resting 
his  hand  on  a book  hardly  seen.  He  is  perhaps  about  to 
speak  to  the  public,  and  his  eyes  take  in  the  assemblage. 
Still  further  to  the  left,  the  fifth  syndic,  apparently  the  pre- 
siding officer,  looks  at  us  with  a certain  air  of  waiting  for  the 
statements;  the  look,  perhaps,  of  a little  superiority  of  knowl- 
edge and  position.  This  notwithstanding  that  the  character 
of  the  head  is  not  so  important  as  that  of  the  others.  These 
two  gentlemen  are  dressed  in  the  older  way.  Their  collars 
are  smaller  and  they  wear  their  natural  hair.  Though  they 
are  already  a little  behind  the  time,  they  are  far  away  from 
the  splendid  costumes  which  we  saw  in  the  paintings  of  Hals 
and  of  Van  der  Heist,  and  of  Rembrandt  in  the  “ Night- 
Watch.”  No  more  of  the  great  plaited  ruffs,  and  frilled  and 
lace  collars;  no  more  the  feathers,  silks  and  satins  — remnants 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  No  more  full  hair  and  hair  cut  in 
every  personal  way.  We  are  now  closing  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  a puritanic  wave  has  added  to  the  natural 
sobriety  of  business  men.  On  the  contrary,  the  three  younger 
syndics  wear  the  long  hair  which  succeeds  the  cropping  of 


26  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
puritanic  days,  and  begins  the  full-bottomed  wig  of  the  age 
of  Louis  XIV.  They  have  cut  off  the  little  imperial  which 
is  such  a mark  of  the  middle  century:  the  Stuart  and  the 
Van  Dyck  moment.  We  must  not  forget  the  sixth  personage, 
whose  position  does  not  allow  him  to  wear  a hat,  and  who 
smiles  with  the  discreet  smile  of  a secretary  behind  the  scenes. 
If  ever  there  was  a lesson  in  the  difference  between  posing 
and  acting,  it  is  here.  The  whole  impression  is  as  momen- 
tary as  reality.  Each  one  of  the  five  figures  is  in  reality 
doing  something,  and  yet  you  know  that  this  is  a collection 
of  portraits. 

Alongside  of  it  the  great  Van  der  Heist  is  thin  and  theat- 
rical, and  we  see  in  the  latter,  as  it  were,  too  distinctly  a 
scene  that  the  eye  could  not  really  grasp  in  such  detail. 
If  one  could  see  the  great  Hals’s  alongside,  they  too  would 
probably  appear  a little  more  the  result  of  much  knowledge, 
much  practice,  astonishing  technique,  but  still  not  so  near 
the  singular  contradiction  of  a natural  sight,  that  sees  only 
certain  things  distinctly  but  is  aware  of  all  of  them.  Our 
photograph  gives  fairly  an  idea  of  all  this.  The  unity  and 
sobriety  of  the  tone  is  so  great  that  though  we  miss  in  the 
copy  much  beautiful  colour,  we  get  a fair  idea  of  the  manner 
of  Rembrandt’s  colour;  that  manner  of  transposing  it  into 
relations  of  light  and  dark  which  is  of  the  essence  of  painting; 


THE  SYNDICS  OF  THE  CLOTH  MERCHANTS  OF  AMSTERDAM  (IN  1661) 


' 


. 


PORTRAITS  OF  CIVIC  LIFE  27 

an  art  which  with  deficient  materials  has  to  represent  the 
enormous  gamut  of  the  world  of  light.  Though  we  get 
some  idea  of  it  by  the  photograph,  yet  the  painting  is  one 
of  the  very  great  paintings  as  mere  technique.  It  is,  so  far 
as  this  can  be  from  what  I have  just  said,  a perfect  piece  of 
work.  Rembrandt  could  not  have  painted  this  extreme 
success  in  the  representation  of  an  every-day  subject  had  he 
not  also  worked  in  imaginative  conditions,  and  fully  freed 
his  thought  and  given  rein  elsewhere  to  that  universal  sym- 
pathy with  all  the  chances  of  life  that  invented  stories  allow. 
The  feeling  of  contained  reticence  is  a real  one;  is  in  the  artist 
as  well  as  in  his  models.  Conversely  from  the  “ Night-Watch/’ 
he  has  kept  himself  entirely  within  the  bounds.  But  the 
river  is  a deep  and  strong  one  that  runs  within  this  narrow 
canal.  His  rivals,  the  other  painters,  are  giving  us  their  best. 
But  with  him  there  is  what  belongs  to  the  higher  artist 
— that  this  is  only  what  the  occasion  required  — and  that 
we  do  not  know,  and  never  shall  know,  the  full  powers  that 
might  have  been  exercised  if  life  gave  the  chance. 

It  is  well  that  these  paintings  of  Corporation  Pictures 
remain  in  their  native  land.  Not  only  are  they  there  seen 
in  the  light  that  they  were  meant  for,  almost  in  the  places 
they  were  born  in,  but  we  do  not  suffer,  as  in  many  museums, 
from  the  fact  that  another  light,  another  position,  dimin- 


28  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
ishes  the  effect  which  the  painter  had  really  achieved.  And, 
morally,  the  effect  of  this  testimony  to  a past  history  is 
powerful  upon  those  who  see  the  works  in  place.  All  the 
more  if,  as  in  quiet  Haarlem,  these  paintings  be  the  only 
record  of  a once  active  life.  The  little  museum,  where  the 
Hals’s  are  strung  along  the  wail,  has  more  energy,  more  tes- 
timony to  struggle  and  success  than  the  living  town  itself. 
And  their  testimony  to  the  value  of  Holland  is  greater  than 
we  get  even  through  written  records.  They  tell  us  of  the 
solid  reasons  of  a little  country  holding  its  own  against 
its  gigantic  enemies  — England,  Spain,  Austria,  and  France. 
The  solidity  of  character  represented  carries  us  to  our  own 
day,  and  explains  for  us  the  strenuous  resistance  of  Dutch 
descendants  in  South  Africa  and  the  value  of  the  blood 
which  stiffened  the  courage  of  the  Boers  against  gigantic 
odds. 


Ill 


WAR 


The  very  earliest  records  of  all  the  arts,  the  arts  of  speech 
and  sound,  the  arts  of  sculpture  and  painting,  the  mere  be- 
ginnings of  architecture,  are  memorials  of  successful  war. 
The  earliest  verse  is  that  of  battle  and  of  battle-cry.  From 
the  beginning,  the  Pharaohs  drive  their  chariots  through 
the  slain;  the  Assyrian  kings  number  the  captives,  and 
Hokusai,  the  Japanese,  wishing  to  recall  the  ancient  stories 
of  China,  makes  a picture  in  which  the  conquerors,  tired  with 
murder,  toss  into  vast  heaps  the  bloody  heads  of  the  slain. 
Later,  when  art  has  found  a place  in  Greece,  the  descendants 
of  greater  men  saw  pictured  on  temple  friezes  the  mythologi- 
cal struggles  of  gods  and  heroes  in  which  they  could  feel  their 
own  triumphs  over  their  own  home  rivals,  or  the  Persian 
and  the  barbaric  world.  Later  still,  in  a more  prosaic  and 
official  age,  the  Roman  column  and  the  Roman  arch  tell 
the  story  of  actual  Roman  triumph,  preceded  by  a struggle 
in  which  the  Roman  could  recognize  the  cohort  to  which  he 
had  belonged,  and,  in  a rude  way,  something  of  the  scheme 
of  battle  that  had  been  successful.  Most  of  this  record  has 
been  of  sculpture.  What  else  that  may  have  been  painted 

31 


32  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
is  a mere  statement  of  abstract  fact,  not  far  from  the  brevity 
of  a telegraphic  report  in  its  earliest  forms.  There  is  also 
one  single  fragment  of  mosaic  where  Alexander  charges  into 
the  Persian  mass.  Except  for  those  stories  that  are  symbolic, 
in  which  the  struggle  is  only  a type,  the  art  is  rarely  of  a 
great  character,  and  when  it  rises  higher  it  is  the  record 
of  personal  hand-to-hand  struggle,  based  on  the  most  primi- 
tive needs  of  fight,  and  not  such  a record  of  the  art  of  war 
as  might  make  a difference  between  the  planning  of  one 
success  and  another. 

Such  pictures  came  slowly,  and  when  we  have  them, 
when  in  the  seventeenth  century  we  see  in  such  pictures 
as  Van  der  Meulen’s  the  tactical  account  of  Louis  XIV’s 
victories,  whatever  there  is  that  is  true  loses  its  artistic 
human  interest.  One  mass  of  men,  being  like  another,  and 
seen  at  a great  distance,  we  cannot  tell  through  such  means 
much  more  than  the  theory  of  the  movement.  And  as  the 
very  principle  of  the  meaning  is  a sort  of  immobility  or  me- 
chanical action,  we  are  too  far  away  from  the  human  feeling 
to  care  for  one  mass  more  than  another.  Any  amount  of 
single  individuals  galloping  about  only  make  the  effort  at 
creating  art  more  absurd  and  frigid.  It  is  not  so  different 
at  our  very  day;  and  we  come  to  this  astonishing  result: 
that  the  number  of  pictures  of  historic  battles  which  have 


WAR  33 

a value  in  art  is  extremely  limited.  We  may  have  accuracies, 
and  then  they  take  away  from  the  feeling  of  life;  we  may 
have  attempted  archaeologies,  and  then  the  great  living  facts, 
which  are  the  same  for  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun,  dis- 
appear in  the  so-called  appeal  to  history.  A few  exceptions 
in  what  might  have  been  an  enormous  field  are  all  that  can 
be  marked,  and  a few  of  these  I shall  place  before  the  reader. 

We  must  remember  that  it  is  not  the  choice  of  subject 
that  makes  the  value  of  the  work  of  art.  Otherwise  the 
story  of  the  Bible  would  always  be  full  of  sesthetic  beauty 
instead  of  the  indefinite  tedium  which  haunts  the  religious 
picture.  So,  evidently,  in  the  smaller  dramatic  situations, 
the  fact  that  so  many  brave  men  have  held  a small  post  with 
their  last  cartridges,  that  certain  men  have  made  a last 
ineffectual  charge,  whether  English  or  French,  at  Fontenoy 
or  Waterloo,  does  not  make  a work  of  art.  The  meaning  of 
the  heroism  should  be  told  in  painting  by  the  arrangement 
of  line  and  mass  and  colour,  embracing,  more  or  less,  within 
its  net,  the  human  courage  which  is  the  story  of  the  picture. 
No  poet  laureate,  because  he  has  the  task  of  telling  a great 
national  story,  thereby  succeeds  in  a heroic  ode.  Rare  in- 
deed, even  in  poetry,  are  the  stories  of  great  successful  battles. 
It  might  almost  seem  as  if  the  stories  of  defeat,  of  how  “the 
flowers  of  the  forest  are  all  wede  away,5’  carry  with  them  more 


34  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  the  essence  of  art  than  the  songs  of  triumph,  and,  because 
of  the  solemnity  of  human  fate,  there  has  been  no  greater 
triumph  recorded  than  that  of  the  dead  Hector  dragged 
around  the  walls  of  sacred  Troy  behind  the  chariot  wheels 
of  the  victor  Achilles. 

I So,  perhaps,  in  the  first  example  that  I have  chosen,  we 
may  see  something  of  a sentiment  which  has  directed  the  fines 
of  the  picture,  as  it  might  have  directed  the  lilt  of  verse,  and 
in  which  a representation  of  much  accuracy,  a representation 
of  success  in  war,  is  still  the  record  of  noble  human  feeling. 
Both  parties  are  the  heroes.  This  is  the  “Surrender  of  Breda,” 
also  known  as  “The  Lances,”  by  Velasquez.  Forgotten  for 
a long  time,  to  such  an  extent  that  its  subject  was  unknown 
during  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  it  has  become  one  of 
the  famous  pictures  of  the  world.  It  takes  its  Spanish  name, 
the  painting  of  “The  Lances,”  from  the  group  of  long  spears 
on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  painting,  whose  number  has 
been  often  counted  — they  are  twenty-nine.  They  serve 
to  extend  the  picture  outside  of  the  frame  and  to  suggest 
many  more  on  that  same  level,  and  far  back  we  see  them 
stretched,  moving  down  the  hill.  They  are  the  serried  pikes 
of  Spain,  disciplined  and  trained  to  move  with  one  accord, 
undefeated  until  nineteen  years  later,  in  1643,  when  “the  iron 
cornfield”  — so  called  in  Spanish  verse  — was  mowed  down 


WAR  35 

forever  by  Conde  at  the  battle  of  Rocroy.  1624-  1643: 
those  nineteen  years  include  the  paintings  of  the  Dutch 
burghers  fighting  on  the  other  side,  in  the  pictures  of  Hals, 
Van  der  Heist,  and  Rembrandt.  At  this  moment,  how- 
ever, not  of  the  picture,  but  of  the  capture  of  Breda,  the 
Spanish  must  have  felt  the  invincible  power  of  their  im- 
perialism, and  as  if  this  success  had  been  achieved  over  the 
Dutch  in  the  teeth  of  the  whole  world.  Thus  Olivarez, 
Spain’s  Prime  Minister,  put  it.  Not  that  the  Spaniards 
were  alone;  French,  Germans,  and  Italians  were  on  their  side, 
and,  in  the  fortunes  of  the  town,  this  “ bulwark  of  Flanders” 
was  held  by  either  side  at  different  times.  It  was  the  seat  of 
the  family  of  Orange,  and  at  that  time  converted  into  a 
model  fortress  by  the  Dutch.  This  impregnable  fortress, 
the  Marquis  Spinola,  the  Italian  general  commanding  the 
Spaniards,  was  ordered  to  take,  in  the  brief  message  from 
Philip  the  Fourth:  “ Marquis  take  Breda — I,  the  King.” 

Maurice  of  Nassau  was  in  the  town,  fully  provisioned,  and 
well  defended  by  a garrison  of  veterans,  and  the  struggle  was 
ended  by  the  supplies  running  short,  when  the  place  yielded. 
Spinola  granted  honourable  terms  to  the  aged  Governor, 
Justin  of  Nassau,  who  was  “ allowed  to  march  out  with  all 
arms,  flags  flying,  drums  beating,  guns  loaded  to  the  muzzle, 
with  lighted  fuse,  cavalry  with  flying  streamers,  trumpets 


36  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
blowing,  armed  and  mounted  as  in  the  field.”  Then  came 
the  ceremony  of  surrender,  June  2,  1625 . Surrounded  by 
a “crown”  of  princes  and  officers  of  high  birth,  Spinola 
awaited  the  arrival  of  Justin.  The  Governor  then  presented 
himself  with  his  family,  kinsfolk,  and  distinguished  students 
of  the  Military  Academy,  who  had  been  shut  up  in  the  place 
during  the  siege.  Spinola  embraced  his  vanquished  opponent 
with  kindly  expressions  and  still  more  kindly  words,  in 
which  he  praised  the  courage  and  endurance  of  the  protracted 
defence.  The  story  is  rendered  in  the  painting  in  such  a 
manner  that  any  one  can  understand  its  meaning.  Nothing 
could  be  simpler  than  the  gesture  of  Spinola  placing  his  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  Dutchman,  who  bends  also,  according 
to  etiquette,  as  he  delivers  the  keys  of  the  conquered  city. 
The  national  and  the  personal  characteristics  of  each  leader 
are  expressed  in  every  detail:  in  the  sunburnt  face  of  Justin 
of  Nassau,  above  his  great  white  collar,  in  his  full  doublet 
and  trunk  hose  and  his  heavy  boots;  in  the  slightness  and 
paleness  of  Spinola,  clad  in  ornamental  armour,  and  in  the 
closely  fitting  boots  which  show  his  high-bred  feet.  Some 
years  after  the  event,  Velasquez  had  sailed  to  Italy  with 
the  great  Marquis,  and,  perhaps,  had  there  studied  his 
countenance.  On  that  trip  also  he  saw  at  Venice,  in  the 
Church  of  San  Cassiano,  that  wonderful  picture  of  Tinto- 


WAR  3? 

retto,  “The  Crucifixion,”  where,  in  the  same  way  as  in  his 
own  picture  to  be,  the  lances  of  the  Roman  soldiers  run  across 
the  sky.  In  the  Spanish  picture,  they  and  the  officers  be- 
neath, and  the  bent  flag  and  the  horse  from  whose  saddle 
the  conqueror  has  just  come,  make  one  great  mass  to  one 
side.  On  the  other  side,  the  Dutch  escort  and  the  youthful 
companions  of  the  Dutch  commander  again  make  another 
formal  mass  according  to  etiquette.  To  join  these  two  sides 
the  right  arm  of  Spinola,  extended  in  sympathy,  makes  the 
link.  It  is  the  real  meaning  of  the  picture;  and  its  moral 
and  intellectual  meaning  are  rightly  translated  into  the 
mechanism  of  art.  Of  course,  the  separate  facts  are  beauti- 
fully painted;  the  faces  and  gestures  have  their  expressions, 
the  great  open  background  spreads  with  accurate  topogra- 
phy, the  garrison  moves  out,  closed  in  by  the  Spanish  pikes, 
great  bonfires  are  lit,  and  the  silvery  streak  of  the  Mark  indi- 
cates the  flatness  of  the  plain.  But,  against  all  this,  the  right 
arm  of  Spinola,  clad  in  black  armour,  tells  everything: 
triumph,  appreciation  of  others,  and  the  dignity  of  a great 
commander.  There  are  no  more  war  scenes  by  Velasquez; 
there  were  no  more  victories  for  the  Spaniards;  and,  as  we 
said,  notwithstanding  a century  and  a half  of  war  over  all 
the  possible  spaces  of  Europe  and  America,  there  is  no  other 
great  record  of  defeat  or  triumph  until  Turner’s  record  of 


38  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
Trafalgar  and  the  “Death  of  Nelson,”  which  is  now  in  the 
National  Gallery  of  London. 

Whether  it  be  entirely  acceptable  to  the  eye  of  most  sea- 
men I do  not  know.  I know  that  to  certain  mariners  Tur- 
ner’s errors  were  not  offensive,  and  that  what  he  had  to  say  of 
the  sea  pleased  many  a man  who  knew  of  what  the  painter 
has  expressed.  We  know  that  a painter  of  figures  might  have 
been  tempted  to  take  some  other  and  nearer  view,  if,  indeed, 
he  had  touched  the  subject  at  all.  We  know  also  that  more 
modern  ideas  of  realism  are  here  expressed,  bringing  in  some- 
thing a little  smaller,  something  more  in  the  line  of  what  has 
become  illustration.  But  the  majesty  of  these  great  ships, 
which  we  shall  never  see  again,  the  record  of  the  complicated 
necessities  of  their  handling,  the  solemn,  momentous  up- 
heaval of  the  mast  and  yards,  crowded  together  against  the 
sky,  the  veiling  of  smoke  and  spray  — which  alone  are  a picture 
of  movement  and  of  light  — and  the  choice  of  a perspective 
which  makes  us  look  down  upon  the  deck  of  the  flagship 
Victory  where  the  victor  lies  dying,  are  enough  to  take  the 
painting  out  of  the  mere  realism  of  its  story  into  the  range 
of  epic  poetry.  Here,  too,  we  can  see  what  is  so  rarely  rec- 
ognized in  the  work  of  the  great  landscape  painter  — his 
wonderful  capacity  for  the  grouping  and  arrangement  of 
the  human  figure.  The  many  stories  of  the  fight,  their  neces- 


WAR  39 

sary  connection,  are  all  centred  to  one  point:  the  little  body 
of  the  great  Admiral,  held  up  by  his  men  — poorly  drawn, 
perhaps,  according  to  academic  notion,  but  perfect  in  mean- 
ing — tells  a story  as  visible  to  a mind  unacquainted  with  the 
facts  as  to  us  who  associate  with  the  great  battle  an  impor- 
tance so  decisive  and  so  full  of  the  romance  of  war.  The 
black  and  white  of  our  reproduction  does  not,  of  course,  give 
the  charm  of  the  light  and  colour  that  fill  the  canvas;  that 
beauty  of  Nature  impassive  and  unobservant  of  the  tragedies 
of  men. 

The  great  Napoleonic  conflict  might  well  have  brought 
out  the  sombre  poetry  of  war,  but  of  all  the  paintings,  of  all 
the  official  records,  only  two  or  three  are  worthy  to  survive 
as  art.  One  man  among  the  painters  alone  had  the  poetic 
fire — a youth;  he  had  accompanied  the  French  invasion 
into  Italy,  had  been  present  at  that  marvel  of  genius  and  of 
luck,  the  first  Italian  campaign  of  Bonaparte,  had  been 
dazzled  by  the  glory  of  the  great  commander  and  uplifted 
by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  great  cause  of  civil  freedom.  He 
paints  the  picture  of  a single  episode:  Napoleon  carrying 
the  flag  across  the  bridge  at  Lodi;  Napoleon  at  Jaffa,  touch- 
ing with  bare  hand  the  sick  of  the  plague  to  give  them  courage; 
and  among  others,  few  in  number,  the  battle  of  Eylau,  an 
unintentional  prophecy  of  final  defeat  and  disaster,  where 


40  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OP  PAINTING 
the  great  snow  landscape,  over  which  are  scattered  lines 
of  the  army,  makes  a sinister  background  for  all  the  ugliness 
of  war.  There  is  no  shirking  of  its  horrors,  all  the  more  full 
because  no  sermon  is  intended.  Indeed,  the  story  is  of  the 
regrets  and  sympathy  of  the  conqueror  for  the  cost  of  the 
victory.  One  of  the  wounded  enemy  embraces  his  foot, 
others  appeal  to  him.  His  dying  companions  assert  their 
final  allegiance.  In  the  centre  the  pale  mask  of  the  Emperor 
seems  the  emblem  of  fate  — of  a fate  too  strong  for  his  man- 
agement, and  he  extends  a hand  in  deprecation.  The  dead 
and  the  wounded  lie  in  the  snow;  the  surgeons  are  working 
at  their  best  — even  against  the  struggles  of  the  wounded 
enemies.  Wounded  beasts  struggle,  deserted  in  the  deep 
snow,  and,  right  by  the  Emperor,  adding  a note  of  caricature 
to  emphasize  the  cruel  scene,  caracoles  Murat,  the  King, 
the  cavalry  leader,  in  his  theatrical  costume,  impervious  to 
the  scene.  It  has  all  been  more  or  less  a thing  seen.  The 
experience  of  actual  war  has  taught  the  painter,  and  out  of 
this  past  he  has  made  a great  drama  filled  with  the  accuracy 
of  portraiture  and  of  military  costume  and  equipment. 
However  admirably  rebuilt  the  big  picture  of  Meissonier  in 
our  Museum,  it  is  an  archaeological  and  scientific  reconstruc- 
tion of  possible  fact  — and  it  is  nothing  more,  apart  from  the 
great  question  that  it  is  really  a fragment,  not  a rebuilding 


THE  DEATH  OF  NELSON 


ANTOINE  JEAN  (BARON)  GROS. 
NAPOLEON  AT  THE  BATTLE  OF  EYLAU 


WAR  41 

of  fact  by  the  necessities  of  art  which  ask  the  arrangement 
of  lines  and  masses  and  the  cadences  which  make  a sepa- 
rate creation.  In  the  great  picture  by  Gros,  “ Napoleon  at 
Eylau,”  we  see  the  record  of  the  past  of  the  art  of  war  — the 
one  great  chief  in  whom  all  are  embodied,  on  whom  every- 
thing depends,  who  is  visible  to  all,  and  whose  presence 
animates  and  sustains  this  struggle.  The  era  of  close  con- 
flict is  over.  At  great  distances,  from  unknown  spots,  fall 
the  wounded  and  the  dead.  The  battle  itself  is  almost  out 
of  sight  and  certainly  the  commanders.  They  no  longer  ride 
at  the  head  of  their  men  or  stand  as  an  object  for  the 
enemy’s  artillery.  As  the  commander  at  sea  who  knows  only 
by  the  electric  report  what  is  being  done  out  of  his  sight, 
so  the  commander  of  to-day  can  no  longer  be  represented 
in  the  long  line  of  personal  appearance  which  lasts  from 
indefinite  Egypt  to  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century. 


IV 


DREAM  S O F HAPPINESS 


The  more  man  has  become  engaged  in  the  conflicts  of  civ- 
ilization, in  intellectual  disappointment,  the  more  he  has 
felt  the  uselessness  of  knowledge,  the  more  he  has  turned 
to  certain  expressions  of  art  as  an  escape.  He  has  addressed 
poems  to  Nature,  has  painted  landscape  more  and  more,  has 
shown  in  every  way  that  such  an  escape  was  a dream.  I do 
not  mean  that  such  records  of  art  have  begun  late,  only  that 
the  more  complex  forms,  especially  such  as  those  that  paint- 
ings give,  are  more  evident  to  us.  Art  has  existed  from  the 
very  beginning,  even  before  the  first  man  stuttered  out  his 
naming  of  the  animals  and  expressed  their  character  by  the 
sound  of  their  name.  The  dances  of  savages,  as  we  call 
them,  that  is  to  say  of  people  of  earlier  forms  of  civilization, 
invented  before  the  arts  of  design,  record  in  a poetic  way 
what  they  do,  and  the  seasons  of  such  doings,  and  even  the 
appearance  of  Nature:  the  storm,  the  rain,  the  clouds 

blowing  across  the  sky,  the  lashing  of  the  sea  against  the 
shore.  In  Fiji  they  have  a dance  where  the  women  spread 
out  their  arms  like  the  wave  lines  of  the  surf,  and 
the  children,  springing  up  behind  them,  represent  the  foam 

45 


46  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  the  wave  crests.  From  these  beginnings  we  know  that 
tragedy  and  comedy,  as  we  call  them,  have  grown.  Then, 
as  all  these  disappear  in  fact,  they  are  recorded  in  the  art 
of  painting.  And  as  man,  more  and  more,  leaves  behind 
him  the  life  of  out-of-doors,  in  so  much  does  he  desire  to 
admire  it. 

In  very  old  representations  we  have  nothing  but  what 
is  really  a shorthand  statement  of  the  fact  that  life  in  a 
garden  is  pleasant.  Assyrian  natives  were  shown  to  like  the 
shade  under  vast  umbrellas,  and  Egyptian  ladies,  in  a mode 
not  so  different  from  hieroglyphics,  lift  a flower  to  smell. 
In  the  vast  records  of  Greece  and  Rome  there  is  almost  noth- 
ing but  a few  such  pictures  of  life  as  have  for  their  real  mean- 
ing something  associated  with  story  or  mythology;  so  that  we 
hesitate  even  as  to  the  question  of  some  mystic  teaching  being 
in  reality  the  theme.  Far  away  in  Japan  some  blurred  frag- 
ments tell  us  that  the  ladies  liked  to  walk  among  the  blossom- 
ing trees,  and  their  descendants  still  continue  the  record. 
However  much  there  may  be  of  romance  in  the  pictures  and 
prints  of  Japan  that  we  know,  they  are  pictures  of  real  life, 
made  poetic  by  sobriety  of  means  and  skilful  arrangement 
of  line  and  colour.  Here  and  there,  in  mediaeval  miniatures 
and  tapestries,  we  see  occasionally  some  scenes  of  gay  life 
out-of-doors,  quite  sober  and  dreary  to  us,  and,  indeed,  hav- 


DREAMS  OF  HAPPINESS  47 

in g more  often  the  meaning  of  allegory  than  a representation 
of  life  away  from  danger  and  from  work. 

The  first  eclogue  in  painting,  with  perhaps  one  exception, 
is  that  given  by  the  wonderful  youth  who  turned  the  stream 
of  Venetian  art  into  the  field  of  colour  veiling  the  form. 
Giorgione,  Big  George,  so  called,  says  Vasari,  not  only  from 
his  physical  size,  but  from  the  exaltation  of  his  nature,  painted 
once  for  all  an  impossible  ideal  of  a pastoral,  making  no 
pretence  to  the  life  of  the  fields,  nor  to  a possible  chance 
of  being  true  to  what  might  happen.  In  one  of  the  beautiful 
breezy  landscapes  which  he  and  his  friend  and  rival,  Titian 
of  Cadore,  drew  out  of  their  memories  of  mountain  country, 
he  placed  a number  of  young  people,  in  the  make-believe 
of  a musical  interlude  to  some  feudal  feast  in  open  country; 
in  a sunshine  which  is  true  but  does  not  burn,  so  that  they 
have  no  need  of  shade.  Two  young  men  in  splendid  cloth- 
ing sit  on  the  grass.  One  of  them  tries  with  one  hand  a 
theme  of  music  on  the  strings  of  a mandolin.  One  of  their 
two  women  companions  has  stopped  a flute  for  a moment 
to  listen.  She  turns  her  back  to  us;  she  is  almost  entirely 
nude  in  contrast  to  the  full-dress  of  the  youths  before  us, 
whose  silks  and  satins  add  to  the  unreality.  The  other  one 
has  risen  languidly,  and,  dropping  her  clothing  as  she  has 
moved,  begins  to  draw  water  from  some  antique  fountain 


48  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
under  the  trees.  The  painter  has  found  in  this  imaginary 
choice  a theme  for  his  love  of  the  beautiful  glow  of  human 
flesh,  which  he  first  gave  in  the  art  of  painting.  And,  also, 
for  the  pleasure  of  spreading  out  vast  spaces  ending  in  blue 
sea,  in  an  atmosphere  now  first  represented  by  the  recent 
methods  of  painting.  Not  that  before,  and  perhaps  always, 
something  of  air  and  light  and  distance  had  been  given  in  the 
many  ways  of  painting,  of  which  those  of  the  Greek  have 
disappeared;  but  here  begins  in  the  art  of  painting  that 
steeping  of  the  picture  in  a bath  of  light  and  dark  which  we 
call  chiaro-oscuro , which  others  had  already  much  developed, 
but  to  which  he  and  his  Venetian  successors  gave  the  special 
glow  of  colour  by  which  we  know  them.  Partly  owing  to 
the  solemnity  of  this  colour,  the  glow  of  human  flesh  and  deep 
red  dresses  against  the  greens  and  browns  and  purple-blues 
of  distance,  partly  from  the  combinations  of  the  lines,  a certain 
sadness  comes  to  us  from  the  painting.  It  is  so  serious  that 
the  theme  of  four  young  people  with  music  and  air  and  sun- 
shine about  them  seems  but  to  add  a greater  solemnity.  The 
story  of  the  painter’s  early  death,  the  legend  of  the  treason  of 
friends  — these  memories  come  up  in  the  presence  of  the 
dream  of  happy  and  thoughtless  life. 


A little  over  a century  had  passed;  society  had  much 


GIORGIONE  (ZORZO  DA  CASTELFRANCO) 
PASTORAL  CONCERT 

THE  LOUVRE 


PETER  PAUL  RUBENS 
THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE 


DREAMS  OF  HAPPINESS  49 

changed;  there  were  no  more  small  independent  states,  proud 
of  their  separate  lives.  The  rigid  imperialism  of  Spain  had 
moulded  the  fashionable  ideals  to  more  conformity.  Even 
in  freer  Venice  the  glorious  past  was  gone  — gone  the  great 
painters,  gone  that  self-assertion  of  the  individual.  A like 
fashion  of  dress  and  habit  was  beginning  to  reign  as  it  does 
with  us,  though,  all  the  more,  small  changes  were  noticeable, 
and  the  Spaniard,  for  instance,  aimed,  by  rigid  sumptuary 
laws,  to  mark  some  difference  in  the  outward  look  of  classes 
of  worth  or  power.  In  1600  Rubens  goes  to  study  in  Italy, 
always  the  home  of  the  past,  and  brings  back  larger  manners 
to  graft  upon  the  early  Flemish  art  — perfect  of  its  kind,  but 
far  away  from  the  gallant  cavalier  ways  which  are  to  rule  in 
art.  For,  even  in  the  mythologies,  even  in  the  Christian 
story,  even  in  the  allegories  of  the  masters  of  the  time,  one 
feels  the  grand  manner.  The  ample  costume,  the  great  silk 
doublets,  the  velvet  cloaks,  the  floating  plumes  of  fashion- 
able life,  affect,  of  necessity,  the  motion  and  carriage  of  the 
models  who  posed.  Even  if  they  are  saints  and  martyrs, 
or  heroes  of  classical  reticence  and  stoic  behaviour,  even 
Regulus  and  Coriolanus,  they  carry  in  their  ways  of  moving 
through  pictures  something  of  the  swaying  of  booted,  belted, 
and  spurred  cavaliers.  So  in  Corneille’s  tragedies,  only  a 
little  later,  the  heroes  of  Greece  and  Rome  have  the  voice 


50  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OE  PAINTING 
of  Castilian  romance  — that  something  which  Sancho  Panza 
in  vain  found  fault  with  in  romantic  Don  Quixote.  Between 
the  “Pastoral  Concert”  of  Giorgione  of  Castel  Franco,  still 
redolent  of  the  heather  of  mountains  and  of  freer  air  re- 
gretted in  the  town,  to  Rubens’s  “Garden  of  Love,”  nothing 
has  been  painted.  There  are  pictures  of  amusements  of 
real  life,  of  no  importance;  there  are  various  subjects  of 
so-called  church  or  pagan  story,  where,  with  Giorgione  or 
Veronese,  Moses  is  found  by  princesses,  courtiers  and  their 
ladies,  in  the  waters  of  lake  streams  that  flow  through  charm- 
ing parks;  or  the  story  of  Esther  or  of  Susanna  is  spread 
through  Italian  gardens  filled  with  architectural  decoration. 
Even  the  most  sacred  stories  of  the  New  Testament  have  a 
setting  of  garden  and  palace  art.  But,  except  for  a fragment, 
which  may  be  a story,  there  is  nothing  between  the  “Pastoral 
Concert”  and  the  other  dreamland  of  Rubens’s  “Garden.” 
Here  the  seventeenth  century  has  its  fashionable  dream. 
Rubens  himself  named  it,  in  his  businesslike  way,  “A 
Fashionable  Conversation.”  The  garden  has  become  now^ 
mostly Jbuilding;  its  architectural  adornment  fills  most  of  the 
picture;  the  newer  style  of  architecture  is  heavier,  and  sug- 
gests construction  more  than  that  of  earlier  Italian  Re- 
naissance. It  is  an  apotheosis  of  what  was  called  the  Grotto 
— a supposed  retreat  stiU  more  artificial  than  outside  adorn- 


DREAMS  OF  HAPPINESS  51 

ments.  There,  by  splashing  fountains,  on  the  great  steps, 
sit  splendid  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  florid  and  expansive 
dress  of  the  time.  Enough  trees,  enough  landscape,  to  show 
that  a garden  is  meant.  The  ladies  welcome  each  other; 
one  gallant  cavalier,  with  great  felt  hat  and  feathers  and 
cloak  uplifted  by  his  long  rapier,  hands  his  lady,  in  the  manner 
of  the  day,  into  this  noble  and  gay  assemblage.  Other  noble 
gentlemen  whisper  soft  nothings  to  willing  ears  and  smiling 
faces;  their  words  are  echoed  by  fluttering  cupids  and  loves, 
whose  wings  cast  shadows  here  and  there.  One  of  the  fair 
ones  even  looks  up  at  these  birds  of  a love  paradise  with  a 
smile  of  delighted  amusement.  It  is  an  allegory  of  love 
nonsense,  of  fashionable  dalliance.  Nor  has  our  faithful 
husband  and  artist  forgotten  to  place  his  own  beloved,  his 
wife,  Helena,  in  the  ring  of  fine  ladies.  Indeed,  mostly  all 
have  some  reminder  of  her,  or  of  a similar  type  dear  to  his 
affection.  Even  in  this  dream  of  fine  ladies,  the  Helena  of 
home  life  has  been  indirectly  a subject.  We  have  his  separate 
studies  from  her  for  this  creation  of  pure  fancy.  Pure  fancy, 
it  is  true,  but  the  note  of  modern  society  has  been  struck. 
There  is  an  ocean  between  the  Rubens  and  the  Giorgione. 
The  latter  is  the  murmur  of  the  indefinite  past  — not  ex- 
pressed before  in  whatever  of  the  classical  world  remains  to 
us.  Apart  from  a few  folds  of  silks  and  velvets,  that  painting 


52  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OP  PAINTING 
of  Giorgione  is  an  idyl  of  what  primitive  life,  such  as  is  still 
reflected  in  savage  civilization,  might  have  imagined,  how- 
ever untrue  to  the  prosaic  fact  of  any  special  moment. 

Another  century  almost  exactly  has  passed  and  once  more, 
with  no  record  between,  we  have  the  theme  again.  Watteau 
paints  “L’embarquement  pour  Cythere,”  “The  Taking  Ship 
for  Cythera.”  The  large  study  is  in  the  Louvre,  painted 
for  entrance  into  the  French  Academy;  the  deliberate  com- 
plete work  is  in  Germany,  in  that  curious  collection  formed 
by  Frederick  the  Great.  The  final  results  of  events  define 
our  thoughts  so  much  that  we  hardly  realize  that  the  Frederick 
of  European  war  and  aggrandizement,  the  planner  of  con- 
quests and  the  disenchanted  cynic,  could  have  chosen  out  of, 
all  European  art  such  a tenderness  of  expression.  But  this 
was  begun  in  the  earlier  days;  though  long  afterward  Frede- 
rick continued  to  buy,  “especially  Watteaus,”  as  his  instruc- 
tions read  to  his  purchasing  agent.  The  sad,  unlucky  painter, 
meanwhile,  had  no  easy  time.  Only  late,  through  his  greater 
patrons,  does  he  touch  that  elegant  society  of  which  he  has 
made  poetry  in  many  paintings.  For  this  one  he  could  not 
have  gone  farther  away  from  the  dryness  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Already  the  landscape  is  a dream.  Silks  and 
velvets  have  never  travelled  in  such  garden  parks,  placed 


DREAMS  OF  HAPPINESS 


53 


so  high  in  Alpine  mountain  land,  and  looking  across  lakes 
edged  by  mountains  peaked  and  engrailed.  Only  in  South 
Seas,  still,  at  Watteau’s  date  waiting  for  discoverers,  are 
such  fairy  seas  and  hills  and  peaks  in  happy  islands.  Their 
first  discoverer  chose  for  his  first  discovered  island,  lovely 
Tahiti,  the  European  name  of  New  Cythera.  To  some  other 
one,  some  island  of  the  blest,  some  new  Cythera,  go  this 
stream  of  pilgrims  in  their  best  holiday  dresses,  hah  of  the 
very  latest  fashion  of  the  day,  half  borrowed  from  Italian 
theatres.  They  dally,  they  hesitate  by  the  way.  They 
listen  to  promises,  to  persuasion,  to  small  talk  and  chit-chat 
as  they  go;  just  as  at  any  breakfast,  any  promenade  in  the 
open  park.  A great  gilded  barque  waits  for  them  in  the  shade, 
the  mariners  are  of  the  past  mythology  — as  are  also  meant 
to  be  the  little  loves  and  cupids,  floating  about,  who  are  so 
completely  of  the  eighteenth  century  that  they  seem  to  have 
dropped  from  the  cornices  and  gilded  ceilings  of  rococo 
parlours,  such  as  we  buy  or  heavily  copy  for  the  New  York 
of  to-day.  These  impossible  cherubs  are  to  guide  and  ac- 
company the  pilgrims  to  that  far-away  land  hinted  at  by  the 
landscape,  where  is  the  Font  of  Eternal  Youth,  and  from  which 
none  has  ever  returned.  Never  has  this  enchantment  been 
again  repeated  in  the  art  of  painting,  scarcely  even  in  any 
verse.  For  there  is  only  a slight  melancholy  in  the  delicious 


54  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
charm  — only  that  necessary  suggestion  which  accompanies 
pleasure  for  the  poetic  mind.  Enchantments  there  will  be 
in  the  lines  of  the  poets;  conventional  imitations  of  Watteau 
will  fill  parlours  and  come  now  to  us  at  enormous  prices  for 
the  fancied  pleasure  of  the  very  rich,  but  every  such  thing 
will  be  too  silly  or  too  sad.  This  is  the  last  breath  of  that 
moment  of  society  of  which  Talleyrand  said  that  “who  had 
not  known  it  did  not  know  the  sweetness  of  life.”  Already, 
above,  roll  the  darker  clouds  bringing  in  the  destiny  of  the 
modern  world. 

That  storm  broke  upon  the  Western  world  a century  and 
more  ago,  and  the  words  of  the  cynical  nobleman,  bishop, 
and  diplomat  have  been  justified  abundantly.  Since  the 
day  he  spoke  of,  man  has  not  tried  for  the  sweetness  of  liv- 
ing— “la  douceur  de  vivre”;  the  pursuit  of  the  dream,  the 
dream  of  peace,  has  passed  for  painting  into  the  realm  of 
landscape.  Landscape  has  been  the  escape  from  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  life.  The  nature  which  is  not  human  has 
offered  that  solace  to  the  modern  man  in  every  way,  not  only 
in  painting  or  in  verse,  but  in  the  actual  modern  enjoyment 
of  the  beauties  of  landscape. 

The  modern  landscape  painter,  however,  has  struggled 
and  fought  according  to  the  spirit  of  his  time  with  the  diffi- 
culties of  adequate  representation,  with  the  artistic  necessities 


DREAMS  OF  HAPPINESS  55 

implied,  and,  still  further,  with  a scientific  manner  of  render- 
ing light  and  colour,  so  that  one  looks  back  upon  the  land- 
scape of  the  past,  the  Claude  Lorrains,  and  even  the  Dutch 
transcripts  of  nature,  as  representing  a desire  of  peace  and  the 
repose  that  art  can  give.  Alone,  out  of  an  indefinite  number, 
the  Frenchman,  Corot,  has  aimed  to  express  the  rest  that  we 
feel  in  the  look  of  landscape.  His  are  the  only  ideals  painted 
since  that  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  when  Watteau 
ended.  Nor  have  we  distinctly  felt  his  aim  until  his  course 
was  completed,  because  he  had  to  invent  a manner  of  his 
own  which  seemed  to  partake  of  the  universal  struggle,  not 
in  itself,  but  because  of  the  agitation  about  him. 

With  the  end  of  the  last  century,  a decorator  of  wall  spaces, 
a maker  of  decorative  figures,  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  has  alone 
taken  up  the  idea  of  representing  rest  and  peace.  This  is 
done  through  the  means  of  many  figures,  assembled  in  har- 
monious composition,  where  the  line  of  landscape  connected 
with  them  is  an  integral  part  of  the  story.  A certain  French 
logical  coldness  separates  them  from  the  warmer  and  less 
reticent  works  of  the  past.  It  is  difficult  to  connect  them  at 

first  with  such  a dream  as  that  of  the  Giorgione  at  which  we 

> x, 

first  looked.  But  apart  from  that  more  sensuous  aban- 
donment to  the  joy  of  life,  Puvis’s  work  is  in  the  line  of 


56  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
inheritance  of  the  early  dreamers,  and,  though  it  may  be  the 
landscape  of  dreamland,  his  landscape  is  perhaps  the  most 
essential  part  of  his  painting,  which,  to  the  usual  looker-on,  is 
an  assemblage  of  figures.  It  is  decidedly  the  landscape  of  that 
particular  dream,  and  its  line,  its  disposition,  its  colour, 
are  woven  into  the  story  so  as  to  be  inseparable  from  the 
action  of  the  people  who  live  within  it.  I have  written 
somewhere  else  that  this  necessity  for  a true  bond  between 
the  figure  and  the  landscape  has  always  been  felt,  I think, 
by  the  greater  figure  painters.  It  may  even  have  led  some  of 
them  to  a suppression  of  landscape,  because  of  sensitiveness 
to  the  inappropriate  introduction  of  accidental  form  of  lines. 
Frangois  Millet,  the  son  of  the  great  painter,  once  told  me  of 
his  father’s  saying,  on  his  death-bed,  that  he  had  not  been 
enough  of  a landscape  painter.  In  his  own  words,  he  had 
4 'not  completed  his  harvest”;  and  the  dying  painter  de- 
scribed scenes  of  peace  and  rest  which  he  had  desired  to 
express. 

Compare  the  dreary,  homely  background  of  Puvis’s  "St. 
Genevieve,”  an  idealization  of  the  tame  environs  of  Paris, 
with  his  "Doux  Pays.”  The  landscape  of  the  "Lovely 
Land”  ("Doux  Pays”)  spreads  a fairy  sea  and  dreamy 
mountains  and  thin  graceful  foliage,  against  which  are  placed 
figures  in  lazy  attitudes,  that  watch  from  their  height  of 


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PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES 
DOUX  PAYS  (THE  LOVELY  LAND) 

COLLECTION  BONNAT,  PARIS 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


DREAMS  OF  HAPPINESS  57 

cliff  the  arrival  of  the  boats  of  their  friends  or  of  far-away 
traders,  coming  from  a great  sea  where  the  struggles  of  others, 
in  the  words  of  Lucretius,  are  a pleasant  picture  to  the  watcher 
from  the  land.  The  absence  of  all  meaning,  as  we  usually 
define  the  word  — the  mere  accidental  postures  of  the  figures 
in  the  scene,  give  just  the  intention  of  the  artist  — the  look 
of  momentary  rest  in  an  imaginary  land  where  life  must  be 
easy  because  of  its  simplicity. 


V 

PORTRAITS  OF  CHILDREN 


From  the  pleasure  we  take  in  the  pictures,  sometimes  also 

in  the  portraits,  of  children,  it  might  be  supposed  that  we 

should  find  for  our  present  purpose  of  choosing  out  of  all 

art  some  of  the  fairest  flowers  a greater  supply  than  we  should 

get  from  the  number  of  older  persons  painted.  All  the  more 

that  we  are  naturally  inclined  to  the  subject  of  the  artist. 

The  subject  escapes  our  dislike  in  the  first  place,  as  with  the 

reality  our  knowledge  of  human  nature  does  not  extend  far 

enough  into  the  future  to  judge  these  beginning  lives,  and  they, 

too,  are  probably  at  their  best.  They  are  usually  painted 

when  they  are  at  their  prettiest,  and  their  astounding  power 

of  being  all  there  at  the  moment  in  the  transient  attitude  they 

prefer  puts  them  almost  at  their  ease  morally.  Painted, 

we  do  not  ask  anything  from  them  — any  duty,  obedience, 

or  holding  their  tongues,  making  less  noise.  We  both  admire 

and  pity  them  because  they  have  to  change  and  be  like  us.1. 

It  is,  after  all,  for  them  that  most  of  us  live,  but  in  the  painted 

image  we  have  no  anxiety  for  their  future  welfare.  Usually 

they  are  painted  before  that  change  in  which  anxiety  is  marked, 

and  therefore  nothing  darkens  the  prospect.  It  has  been 

61 


62  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
natural  to  paint  them  as  angels  even  if  our  Lord  had  not 
established  their  age  as  a type  of  what  we  should  try  to  be. 
The  antique  representations  of  children  come  to  us  only 
through  sculpture,  and  whether  painted  or  sculptured  they 
are  rather  types  than  portraits.  There  is  no  little  Protus 
such  as  Browning  described : 

Among  these  latter  busts  we  count  by  scores 
Half-emperors  and  quarter-emperors, 

One  loves  a baby  face,  with  violets  there, 

Violets  instead  of  laurel  in  the  hair, 

As  those  were  all  the  little  locks  could  bear. 

There  is,  however,  far  away  in  chivalrous  Japan,  painted 
by  a painter,  himself  a knight,  touched  by  the  grace  of  Bud- 
dhism in  bloody  days  of  feud  and  hate,  the  little  portrait  that 
I give  herewith  of  the  child  saint  who,  seven  hundred  years 
ago,  brought  a fuller  Buddhism  into  Japan. 

He  is  Ivo-bo-Dai-shi  (the  broad  religious  great  teacher), 
his  real  name  being  swamped  in  this  posthumous  tribute  to 
his  memory,  and  the  meaning  of  his  teaching.  For  he 
achieved  the  blending  of  the  native  beliefs  of  Japan  with  the 
foreign  religion  of  Buddhism  and  helped  to  make  “Patriotism 
and  Piety  one.”  Thus,  he  saw  in  the  gods,  in  the  heroes  of 
old  Japan,  manifestations  of  eternal  truths,  which  had  taken 
the  forms  of  man,  and  founded  a theology  suitable  to  the  race 
which  secured  the  prevalence  of  the  doctrine  imported  from 


PORTRAITS  OF  CHILDREN  63 

India,  where  he  himself  was  said  to  have  studied.  And, 
more  than  that,  he  is  the  inventor  of  the  Japanese  alphabet, 
and  for  the  last  thousand  years  the  children  have  repeated 
the  names  of  these  names  of  sound  which,  run  together, 
make  a verse,  telling  the  disenchanting  doctrine  of  the  transi- 
tory passage  of  the  world: 

The  charms  and  the  perfumes  of  life  in  reality  disappear: 

In  this  world  of  ours  is  there  aught  which  lasts  forever? 

In  the  deep  mountain  of  existence  the  present  day  is  sinking 
And  is  not  even,  alas,  the  fragile  image  of  a dream. 

The  placing  of  the  child  on  the  lotus  flower  is  the  rendering 
of  a continuous  prophetic  dream  of  bis  when  he  was  five  years 
old  and  which  he  kept  secret  to  himself ; the  lotus  is  the  usual 
emblem  and  figure  of  that  doctrine  of  Buddha  which  the  child 
was  to  live  for.  And  in  his  tomb,  in  the  great  garden  of  the 
monastery  he  founded  — Koya  San  — a pious  tradition 
keeps  him  still  alive.  The  little  picture  represents  the  youth- 
ful saint  placed  on  the  lotus  flower,  which  typifies  the  religion 
of  Buddha,  praying  as  might  the  infant  Samuel,  with  a 
sweetness  that,  even  in  this  extremely  simple  method  of  paint- 
ing, is  reflected  long  before  the  Christian  painters  gave  us 
the  expression  of  religious  absorption.  For  it  is  with  the 
pictures  of  saintly  scenes  of  the  infant  Christ  and  little  John 
and  the  angels  in  attendance  that  the  portrait  of  the  child 
begins  to  be  seen  in  art.  The  painters  began  to  draw  from 


64  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
real  life  the  motives  of  the  imaginary  characters.  Therefore, 
the  little  child  Christ  puts  His  hand  on  the  gray  heads  of 
the  kings  or  of  the  magi  who  kneel  before  Him.  He  smiles 
at  the  donors  who  are  painted  modestly  in  the  corners  of 
holy  pictures.  He  lies  sleepy  on  His  mother’s  shoulder  and 
stretches  out  a lazy  hand.  He  plays  with  the  angels  that 
surround  Him  or  looks  at  them  as  another  amusement.  Nor 
are  the  little  angels,  the  little  Saint  Johns,  his  cousins,  pure 
inventions.  They  are  the  children  playing  about  the  homes 
of  the  painters,  whether  those  painters  live  in  more  prosaic 
Flanders  or  in  romantic  villages  or  towns  of  Italy.  The 
divine  meaning  of  all  these  subjects  of  painting  freed  nature 
to  the  eye  of  the  painter. 

Only  very  slowly  are  the  portraits  of  little  personages, 
children  of  princes  or  of  kings,  treated  otherwise  than  through 
etiquette.  In  fact,  they  are  rarely  painted.  It  is  only  when 
they  are  old  enough  to  be  marked  as  successors  to  dignities 
that  it  is  necessary  to  have  a record  of  them,  to  propose  their 
choice  in  other  courts  for  marriages  that  might  happen.  And 
then  perhaps  are  they  more  gawky  than  they  need  be,  because 
they  are  just  then  taken  at  a time  of  indecision  and  vacant 
promise.  So  w*e  have  drawings  of  children  as  young  as  seven 
years,  like  little  Margaret  of  Valois  of  France,  made  for  the 
youthful  Don  Carlos  of  Spain,  among  the  pictures  by  Clouet. 


NOBUZANE 

KO-BO-DAL-SHI  (THE  BROAD  RELIGIOUS  GREAT  TEACHER) 


VELASQUEZ  (DIEGO  RODRIGUEZ  DA  SILVA  Y) 
LAS  MENINAS  (THE  MAIDS  OF  HONOUR) 

THE  PRADO 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


J i 


PORTRAITS  OF  CHILDREN  65 

But  the  painters  have  begun  to  paint  their  own  children 
and  the  splendour  of  the  success  begins  to  extend  to  official 
portraits.  So  that  we  see  the  story  told  just  at  the  very 
moment  by  the  perfectly  natural  representation,  yet  within 
the  laws  of  etiquette,  of  the  little  princes  and  princesses 
painted  by  Velasquez  around  whom  in  a freer  action  move 
the  older  children  of  their  court.  Either  the  baby  Don 
Balthazar,  with  his  curious  dwarf  companion,  or  the  little 
Infanta  Margaret  in  the  famous  painting  of  “The  Meninas” 
(“The  Maids  of  Honour55). 

This,  as  we  all  know,  is  one  of  the  famous  paintings  of  the 
world  and,  like  many  great  works  of  art  or  literature,  has  had 
its  day  of  glory  and  day  of  oblivion,  and  now  slowly  within 
the  last  half  century  or  so  becomes  a criterion  for  the  modern 
painter.  At  the  time  it  was  painted  it  was  judged  of  pretty 
nearly  as  it  is  to-day.  One  of  the  rival  Italians  who  worked 
much  in  Spain,  a fashionable  and  successful  painter  of  the 
day,  and  certainly  no  mean  artist,  said  of  it  to  Philip  the 
King,  that  it  wTas  the  very  theology  of  painting,  meaning 
thereby,  I suppose,  that  it  was  truth  and  dogma  and  ortho- 
doxy — all  that  is  opposite  to  theoretical  pragmatism.  Its 
workmanship  and  all  that  side  of  painting  which  copies 
nature  for  illusion  have  reached  here  the  highest  level  known; 
inot  attempting  to  deceive,  by  insisting  on  special  points  of 


66  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
accuracy,  but  so  that  each  accuracy  depends  upon  the  others 
and  that  the  whole  has  that  impression  of  nature  which  does 
not  surprise  us,  which  does  not  look  clever  or  particularly 
wonderful  or  difficult  to  understand.  Hence  the  wonderful 
success  of  the  photograph  in  rendering  the  picture,  however 
much  we  may  miss.  There  are  parts  that  are  not  to  be  seen 
and  they  melt  away  as  they  do  in  nature.  The  little  lady  in 
the  centre  of  the  picture  is  the  Princess  or  Infanta  Margaret, 
of  whom  there  are  many  other  protraits,  later,  by  the  same 
illustrious  hand.  Perhaps  here  she  is  less  at  her  ease  than  in 
others,  and  one  feels  all  the  more  what  I am  speaking  of,  the 
slow  growth  of  the  natural  portrait  of  a child  of  royal  blood 
as  compared  with  the  children  of  more  ordinary  birth.  As 
in  the  lines  of  Thackeray,  the  verses  called  “The  Ballad 
of  Policeman  X,”  we  are  to  remember  the  reproof  given  by 
the  nurse  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  asking  at  the  time  of 
the  birth  of  the  present  King  — “Is  it  a hoy  or  girl?"  “ Your 
Grace,  it  is  a Prince  ."  “And  at  the  nurse's  hold  reply,  he  did 
both  laugh  and  wince."  Here  the  little  Princess  is  five  years 
old.  She  is  the  half-sister  of  the  little  Don  Balthazar  whom 
we  have  seen  a moment  ago  with  the  dwarf.  The  relentless 
etiquette  which  surrounded  her  followed  her  into  such  details 
as  this:  that  when  she  was  thirsty  one  of  her  noble  maids,  a 
“menina,”  brought  a glass  to  another,  who  knelt,  as  also  did 


PORTRAITS  OF  CHILDREN  67 

the  maid,  and  on  the  other  side  knelt  also  an  attendant  to 
give  her  a napkin,  while  a maid  of  honour  stood  as  a witness. 
This  is  almost  a description  of  this  picture,  of  a scene  which 
occurred  probably  in  some  room  of  the  court,  where  their 
Majesties  had  been  sitting  for  their  portraits.  Or  else  the 
King  had  come,  as  was  his  habit,  to  watch  his  favourite 
painter.  For  the  King  himself  was  somewhat  of  a painter, 
somewhat  of  a poet,  very  much  of  a sportsman,  and  also  a 
majestic  and  hard-worked  business-man,  glad  to  escape  from 
the  terrors  of  official  life.  Thus  the  subject  is  supposed  to 
have  happened,  and  that  the  King  wished  the  accidental 
scene  preserved.  We  know  he  is  there,  because  he  is  reflected 
with  the  Queen  in  the  mirror  on  the  wall.  He  sees  what  we 
see;  and  this  mirror  contains  the  only  portrait  we  have  of  the 
King  and  Queen  together.  The  little  Princess  is  on  her  best 
behaviour  before  their  Majesties  — her  father  and  mother. 
We  can  reconstruct  the  scene  as  it  occurred.  Windows  had 
been  closed  to  make  a special  light  for  one  of  the  royal  sitters; 
and  the  group  of  the  Princess,  her  maidens,  and  the  dwarfs 
kept  to  amuse  her,  stood  in  this  narrow  light.  The  Queen’s 
quartermaster  opens  the  door  in  the  rear,  apparently  at 
some  order  from  the  King,  whom  we  do  not  see.  But  we 
recognize  the  peculiar  movement  of  a man  waiting  for  further 
instructions.  In  the  gloom  of  the  room  is  the  Lady  of  Honour 


68  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
in  her  convent  habit.  She  may  have  belonged  to  some  order, 
or  have  assumed  it  for  some  special  purpose  in  such  a reli- 
giously minded  court.  Next  to  her  stands  an  elderly  gentle- 
man, whose  duty  it  was  to  attend  the  court  lady.  One  of 
the  noble  girls,  whose  name  still  remains,  offers  to  the  little 
Princess,  upon  a gold  salver,  some  water  from  a cup  made  of 
a special,  fine  scented  clay  from  the  East  Indies.  The  other 
maiden,  dressed  also  in  the  court  habit,  with  the  great  hoop 
skirts,  which  were  the  rule,  courtesies  slightly  upon  the 
occasion,  according  to  the  etiquette  I first  described.  We 
know  her  name  too,  and  that  she  grew  up  to  be  a great  beauty 
and  died  early.  On  the  right  is  the  ugly,  stupid  dwarf,  Maria 
Barbola,  and  her  companion,  Nicholas  Pertusato,  who  puts 
his  foot  on  the  big  dog,  half  asleep,  as  if  to  wake  him  up  and 
get  a little  fun  out  of  the  moment.  Velasquez  himself  has 
just  been  painting.  He  stands  by  the  great  canvas  which 
runs  through  the  greater  part  of  the  picture;  and  we  see  the 
motion  of  the  hand  that  painted  that  picture . It  is  all,  as  it  were, 
a mere  accident,  but  every  part  of  it  has  been  used  to  help 
the  impression  and  make  a beautiful  pattern,  and  we  shall 
never  know  how  much  it  was  a mere  copy  from  nature,  and 
how  much  the  choice  of  art.  There  is  a legend  that  the  red 
cross  on  the  painter’s  doublet  was  painted  by  Philip  himself, 
as  a manner  of  telling  Velasquez  that  he  had  made  him  a 


VELASQUEZ  (DIEGO  RODRIGUEZ  DA  SILVA  Y) 
THE  INFANTE  DON  BALTHAZAR  CARLOS 


THE  PRADO 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


BARTOLOME  ESTEBAN  MURILLO 
ST.  JOHN  THE  BAPTIST 

BELVEDERE  MUSEUM,  VIENNA 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


PORTRAITS  OF  CHILDREN  69 

Knight  of  Santiago,  and  as  a joyful  surprise.  He  was  said 
even  to  have  used  the  words  that  “it  needed  nothing  but 
that.”  All  legends  are  sure  to  be  shaken,  if  not  destroyed, 
and  we  are  now  assured  that  the  cross  was  added  by  order 
of  the  King  at  Velasquez’s  death  as  a manner  of  making  him 
more  fitting  for  the  august  company  in  which  he  was  painted. 

Princess  Margaret’s  brother,  Don  Balthazar,  has  a gayer 
time  in  painting,  as  he  had  also  in  real  life.  Another  triumph 
of  Velasquez,  another  triumph  of  art  in  the  simplicity  of  its 
intention  and  its  rendering,  is  the  portrait  of  the  little  Prince 
on  his  pony  galloping  toward  us  in  the  style  of  an  officer 
or  general  with  his  marshal’s  baton  extended.  One  can 
suppose  the  boy  playing  at  being  commander  also,  and  riding 
the  chestnut  pony  as  he  was  taught  by  his  father  — the  best 
horseman  in  Spain.  The  little  pale  face,  just  joyful  enough, 
notwithstanding  its  play  of  dignity,  or  because  of  it,  is  framed 
in  a heavy  hat;  the  green  velvet  jacket  with  white  sleeves, 
on  which  is  tied  the  delicate  pink  scarf  whose  ends  flutter 
in  the  wind;  the  blue  of  the  saddle,  the  trappings  of  the  horse, 
are  each  wonders  of  rendering.  The  chestnut  pony,  rounded 
like  a ball,  with  long  mane  and  sweeping  tail,  forms  with  the 
Prince,  his  rider,  a mass  of  motion  made  stronger  by  the  con- 
trast of  all  the  lines  and  tones  of  the  quiet  landscape ; such  a 
one  as  Velasquez  saw  from  his  studio  window,  in  the  palace, 


70  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
at  springtime  — a stretch  of  blue  and  white  clouds,  and  be- 
yond the  blues  and  the  grays  and  greens  of  the  hills  the 
Mountains  of  Guadarrama,  still  bluer,  and  crowned  with 
films  of  snow. 

Meanwhile  the  children  of  the  poor  were  being  painted 
in  the  manner  of  portraits  or  rather  in  the  manner  of  subjects 
sufficient  of  themselves  and  treated  with  some  respect.  The 
Dutch  painters  were  painting  the  scenes  of  home  life,  where 
children  came  in  as  did  everything  else  that  belonged  to  the 
life-represented.  They  are  true  enough,  often  disagreeably 
so,  if  they  are  not  treated  as  portraits,  as  subjects  of  suffi- 
cient dignity,  to  be  the  entire  motive.  Murillo,  the  painter  of 
Spanish  devotion  and  of  abandonment  to  the  charm  of 
religious  possession,  has  painted  his  “ Beggar  Boys”  with  a 
certain  grandeur,  as  if  they  were  disinherited  noblemen  with 
acquired  bad  habits,  with  cheek  extended  by  the  bit  of 
fruit,  etc.  They  are  alone  of  their  kind.  So  vulgar  and  so  dig- 
nified, they  have  no  intention  of  satire  or  analysis.  And  in 
his  devotional  pictures  the  children,  under  the  guises  of  angels 
and  the  cherubs,  or  the  Christ  child  held  by  His  mother  or 
embracing  St.  Anthony  of  Padua,  are  children  whose  dignity 
is  the  lovely  sentiment  of  the  artist.  However  personal  it 
may  seem  to  us,  it  mingles  insensibly  with  the  other  Spanish 
expressions.  It  comes  from  a habit  of  life,  intimately  satu- 


PORTRAITS  OF  CHILDREN 


71 


rated  by  religion,  following  the  ordinary  virtues,  and,  though 
capable  of  the  mystic  and  the  passionate,  perfectly  natural 
and  in  accordance  with  ordinary  humanity.  In  that  manner 
of  using  the  child  as  a receptacle  for  the  ideal  of  feeling  the 
“ Saint  John”  of  Murillo  makes  a manner  of  portrait.  In  a 
more  serious  and  more  poetic  form  such  a painting  connects 
with  the  children  painted  in  the  next  century  by  Sir  Joshua 
and  Gainsborough. 

The  one  I have  chosen  of  the  several  of  Murillo’s  sacred 
children  is  the  little  Saint  John,  who  looks  up  to  a sky  over- 
hanging a landscape  of  hills  and  trees,  such  as  the  Spaniard 
saw.  The  boy’s  face  grows  older  with  the  idea  of  the  heaven 
above  him,  perhaps  near  him.  The  peasant’s  hand  presses 
the  half -bared  breast;  the  hard  peasant  feet  are  bare;  the 
child  is  an  out-of-doors  boy,  no  imagined  ideal  of  elegance 
and  inspiration.  He  is  the  cousin  of  the  mischievous  beggars 
in  Murillo’s  pictures.  He  could  play  with  them  to-morrow. 
But  a something  of  yearning,  as  if  of  orphanage,  has  touched 
the  haggard  features  of  the  shepherd  boy.  It  is  true  that  he 
points  to  a scroll  curled  around  a little  cross,  but  that  is  merely 
the  explanation  of  himself  and  that  he  announces  the  Lamb 
of  God.  And  a real  lamb  presses  also  against  him,  waiting 
its  turn  of  notice.  Nor  could  the  impression  of  dreamland 
go  without  the  great  shadows  which  make  the  picture,  which 


72  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
bathe  a proportion  of  its  surface  in  a relation  to  the  light, 
and  allow  the  eye  to  centre  on  this  transfiguration  of  a peas- 
ant’s face  by  the  feeling  of  the  artist.  He  recorded,  perhaps, 
an  expression  once  really  seen  in  some  boy’s  face;  for  imagina- 
tion is  made  up  of  many  memories  and  its  calls  do  not  come 
by  ordered  necessity. 


VI 


TRIUMPHS  — PART  ONE 


As  the  song  and  the  verse  recorded  success,  so  also  has  the 
work  of  the  hand,  the  arts  of  the  hand  — the  arts  of  archi- 
tecture, sculpture,  and  painting  — from  their  most  vague 
beginning.  Mostly  these  early  testimonials  are  mere  rec- 
ords; often,  however,  associated  with  some  ideals  — natur- 
ally those  of  religion,  of  observance  — of  duty  to  the  forces 
which  perhaps  give  success.  Sometimes  they  are  testimonials 
to  personal  valour  in  the  person  of  the  ruler  who  triumphs 
over  his  bound  enemies  in  Assyrian  sculptures  or  fights  the 
lion  hand  to  hand. 

That  good  taste  of  the  Greeks,  which  we  can  never  too 
much  admire  — so  much  is  it  a record  of  intellectual  sight  and 
of  moral  balance  — preferred  to  record  triumphs  by  some  de- 
votion to  the  Gods  who  gave  the  battle,  or  else  by  some  image, 
which  through  praise  of  God  and  Heroes,  apart  from  men 
themselves,  might  not  wake  that  Nemesis  which  they  knew 
hangs  forever  over  each  attempt  at  self-glorification.  That 
perfect  taste  is  not  so  far  from  later  recognition  of  the  re- 
ligious necessity  of  attributing  all  triumph  and  all  success 
to  something  outside  of  us. 


75 


76  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
With  the  Roman  world  the  testimony  is  more  brutal,  and 
as  the  ruler  is  a form  of  God,  as  the  State  and  God  become 
one,  there  is  perhaps  more  harmony  than  we  discern  easily 
to-day.  With  the  crash  of  Rome  and  the  triumph  of  Christi- 
anity comes  of  course  some  element  of  the  Christian  spirit, 
but  still  we  see  the  Emperor,  often  a half  barbarian,  placed 
on  the  right  hand  of  the  lowly  Christ  in  Byzantine  mosaic. 
He  is  his  Vice-regent,  a sort  of  Lieutenant,  and  he  continues 
the  Roman  tradition.  Then  the  chivalry  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
the  absorption  of  all  in  service  to  the  Church,  or  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  or  to  the  Blessed  Saints,  or  to  Christ  Himself  the 
Head,  wipes  out  the  record  of  personal  triumph.  Churches 
are  built,  windows  are  placed,  saintly  stories  are  painted 
almost  as  atonement  for  success.  With  the  necessary  reaction, 
with  the  breaking  up  of  the  ties  to  the  superiors  of  hierarchy, 
with  the  assertion  of  personal  value  and  valour,  comes  first, 
and  in  Italy,  the  record  of  the  glory  of  the  City.  Occasionally 
this  is,  in  a smaller  way,  a memorial  of  some  great  lord  of  per- 
sonal promise  or  achievement,  but  it  is  the  City  which  is  first 
glorified.  Any  smaller  attempts  here  and  there  are  unim- 
portant, and  drowned  in  the  praises  and  laudations  of  Venice 
as  painted  by  her  artists.  No  songs  since  Roman  days  have 
been  as  fine  in  praise  of  the  majesty  of  the  City’s  fame. 
Nil  visere  majus.  Their  meaning  was  sufficient,  their 


PAOLO  VERONESE 
THE  GLORY  OF  VENICE 

DUCAL  PALACE,  VENICE 


PAOLO  VERONESE 
VENICE  ENTHRONED 

DUCAL  PALACE,  VENICE 


TRIUMPHS  77 

theme  grateful  enough  to  lift  the  painters  with  them.  In 
whatever  case,  that  something  that  painting  alone  can 
give  the  cry  of  music  excepted  remains  for  us,  to  whom 
Venice  is  but  a name,  her  glory  all  departed.  But,  never- 
theless, we  see  and  sympathize  with  the  idea  of  success 
depicted;  as  we  do  in  music’s  triumphs  which  are  for  us,  and 
are  our  own,  though  their  meaning  was  once  for  others  and 
not  for  us  at  all.  What  the  exact  cause  is  of  these  representa- 
tions and  triumphs  having  come  to  be  the  greatest  types  it  is 
difficult  to  establish.  Why,  especially,  when  the  function, 
the  external  representation  of  the  pomp  of  power  was  so  often 
seen  by  Italian  eyes  in  pontifical  splendours,  or  in  the  cere- 
monial of  churches,  in  all  processions  of  civic  and  government 
display;  when  the  imagination  of  writers  and  of  painters  in 
Florence,  in  Milan,  or  elsewhere,  was  called  to  instil  poetry 
into  every  detail;  when  Italian  records  are  full  of  them;  when 
fortunes  were  spent  upon  them;  when  a special  form  of 
poetry  consecrated  that  name  of  “Triumph”  for  ideals 
such  as  Chastity,  Love,  or  Death  (in  verse  we  know  they 
bore  the  name  Trionfi);  when  painters  and  sculptors  again 
translated  these  poems  of  literature  into  engaging  shapes,  why 
was  it  left  to  Venice,  the  commercial,  alone  to  feel  the  great 
breath  of  joy  and  elation  that  animates  these  great  wall  or 
ceiling  pictures,  which  takes  them  away  from  local  conditions 


78  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OE  PAINTING 
and  makes  them  types  of  the  pure  ideal?  It  may  be  that  the 
other  previous  forms,  exhausted  first  attempts,  based  on  the 
copying  of  external  realities,  and  not  on  the  realities  of  art, 
in  which  colour,  line,  and  spaces  are  the  bases  and  realities 
of  fact,  used  to  excuse  these  means  of  art. 

The  great  painter,  Paul  of  Verona,  fits  so  absolutely  by 
his  temperament,  his  training,  and  his  methods  of  painting 
into  the  representation  of  scenes  open  to  the  public  eye,  to 
which  also  belong  a certain  proportion  of  display,  a certain 
idea  of  function,  that  he  seems  to  have  invented  the  occasions 
for  them.  Other  Venetians  have  also  spread  open  great 
surfaces  of  architecture  in  which  move  their  crowds : the  needs 
of  the  time,  which  as  we  know  determine  the  forms  of  talent, 
called  for  big  spaces  to  be  adorned  in  churches,  in  the  meeting 
places  of  convents,  of  palaces  private  or  public;  other  painters 
have  filled  these  needs  of  the  day,  but  none  as  if  they  had 
always  wished  for  such  a chance  and  felt  themselves  in  their 
proper  home.  A cool  and  temperate  lighting,  a wise  and 
temperate  arrangement  and  balance,  a wise  and  temperate 
expression,  even  in  such  a drama  as  that  of  Christ  falling 
below  the  weight  of  the  cross,  have  always  been  with  Vero- 
nese. But  the  larger  the  space  to  fill,  the  more  figures  to  be 
invented,  the  more  difficult  the  relations  of  real  life  and 
arbitrary  arrangement  of  imaginary  spaces,  the  more  at 


TRIUMPHS  79 

his  ease  seems  this  modest,  most  balanced,  most  gentlemanly 
of  painters.  So  complete  is  his  equipment,  so  thoroughly 
has  he  understood  the  necessities,  or  what  one  might  call 
the  duties  of  the  paintings  to  be  seen  on  big  stretches  of  wall 
or  ceiling  — which  must  be  seen  from  many  places  and  still 
keep  beauty  of  line  and  arrangement,  and  tell  their  story 
however  looked  at,  in  light,  and  half  light,  and  shadow  — 
that  we  pass  a little  too  easily  and  call  this  decoration  and 
not  drama.  But  the  essential  good  taste  which  is  Veronese’s 
mark  and  his  serenity  of  mind  made  him  decide  the  proper 
course.  In  the  great  spread  of  wall  paintings,  which  must 
remain  before  the  spectator  whether  he  wishes  to  see  or  not, 
it  is  evident  logic  that  peace  and  order  and  absence  of  dis- 
turbance or  sudden  appeal  should  be  the  law.  Veronese  is, 
therefore,  the  great  decorative  painter,  whatever  else  we  may 
think  of  him,  and  it  is  but  right  that  fate  should  have  called 
him  to  paint  the  great  function  of  Venice  Triumphant,  in 
perfect  union  between  the  idea  and  the  artist.  That  triumph 
is  one  of  peace,  of  serene  established  success.  If  centuries 
of  war,  of  financial  and  diplomatic  struggle,  of  commercial 
effort,  of  continued  industry,  have  been  the  beginning  of 
this  day  of  peace,  there  is  almost  nothing  in  the  serene  picture 
to  recall  it.  Only  such  matters  as  belong  to  great  festivals; 
the  putting  of  the  people  in  order  and  in  their  places;  some 


80  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
troops  of  guards  making  a police  enough  to  remind  the  happy 
ones  at  home  that  outside  and  far  away  there  are  men  on 
watch,  and  all  the  security  of  discipline  and  courage.  Two 
horsemen  ride  through  a crowd  which  is  there  to  enjoy  the 
spectacle  and  take  them  as  part  of  it.  All  but  these  few 
guards  look  up  to  where  above,  over  many  steps,  upon  which 
ride  the  horses,  and  on  the  last  one  of  which  the  Lion  of  St. 
Mark  spreads  his  imaginary  wings,  rises  a palace  solid  but 
imaginary,  a painter’s  dream  of  architecture,  but  the  dream 
of  a painter  learned  in  other  arts.  Were  it  more  real  we 
could  not  explain  why  such  things  occurred  there;  we  should 
feel  that  in  a building  built  by  hands,  subjected  to  the  con- 
ventionalities and  the  necessities  of  the  builder,  gods  would 
not  float  from  pillar  to  pillar,  or  triumphant  angels  sail  past 
the  cornices  through  the  blue  and  white  sky  known  only  to 
Veronese.  Hence,  everything,  every  reality  of  construction, 
is  slightly  modified,  with  the  appearance  of  great  exactness 
and  anxiety  to  conform  to  proper  architectural  rule.  But 
the  painter  has  only  conformed  to  external  rules  and  escaped 
the  grave  necessities.  Perspective,  the  art  of  placing  things 
so  that  they  may  recede  or  diminish  with  a semblance  of 
correctness,  has  been  most  subtly  used  here,  as  was  the  train- 
ing of  the  time.  We  are  enabled  thereby  to  look  up  with 
all  this  multitude.  We  should  look  up  since  it  is  the  ceiling, 


JACOPO  ROBUSTI  (TINTORETTO) 
THE  GLORY  OF  VENICE 


DUCAL  PALACE,  VENICE 


TRIUMPHS  81 

but  the  subject  itself  is  one  better  understood  if  we  suppose 
that  it  lies  above  us,  away  from  whatever  plane,  whatever 
level  we  ourselves  are  on.  If  the  architecture  be  imaginary, 
we  are  reassured  by  the  relative  reality  of  its  habitants. 
Were  we  Venetians  of  that  day  we  should  be  pleased  to  see 
the  same  great  ladies,  in  their  beautiful  dresses,  just  as  we 
met  them  at  a distance  on  great  occasions.  And  their  good 
nature  takes  in  all  their  attendants,  their  children,  and  the 
crowd  of  the  curious  who  always  trespass.  These  press  in 
and  lean  against  the  columns  — a little  more  and  they  would 
wet  their  hands  in  the  clouds  that  separate  them  as  by 
an  upper  story  from  the  immortal  gods  above.  Noblemen, 
and  clergymen,  Turks  and  infidels  subject  to  Venice,  lean 
also  on  the  great  balcony  and  gaze  at  the  triumph  above, 
just  taking  visible  form.  On  that  second  story  of  clouds  rests 
the  fashionable  mythology  of  the  moment,  not  quite  Greek, 
not  quite  antique,  and  still  so  clearly  made  of  that  same 
imagination  which  first  gave  human  shape  to  powers  and 
abstract  ideas.  Mars,  dressed  in  somewhat  antique  fashion, 
and  Ceres  crowned  with  wheat,  and  Commerce  with  Mer- 
cury’s wand,  and  the  other  necessary  chorus,  sit  around 
the  sweet  Goddess  Venice,  foreshortened  high  above,  clad  in 
brocade  and  ermine,  her  blond  Venetian  hair,  obtained  by 
nature  or  by  artifice,  dropping  on  her  shoulders.  She  waits 


82  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
calmly,  like  any  well-bred  lady,  for  the  crown  which  the 
occasion  gives  her,  brought  down  by  some  divine  messenger, 
swooping  from  the  sky,  who  needs  no  wings  to  tell  us 
how  easily  she  moves  through  space,  as  between  the  archi- 
traves and  the  columns  and  the  statues  far  above.  She  has 
left  that  blue  and  white  sky  of  Veronese  which  seems  to  be- 
long to  Venice  and  crowns  in  this  case  the  glories  of  a beautiful 
summer  day.  All  is  fancy,  all  is  imaginary,  all  is  impossible 
except  that  there  are  the  figures  of  the  scene,  and,  since  they 
are  there  in  their  proper  place  and  perspective,  the  sight  must 
be  true;  and  we  feel  that  in  this  steady  light  of  ordinary 
day  it  must  occur  again,  and  must  be  the  usual  habit  of 
Venice  the  Glorious. 

I do  not  know  but  that  the  less  important  “Venice  En- 
throned” of  Paul  Veronese  be  not  more  perfect.  It  is  more 
of  a rendering  to  us  of  a success  which  we  recognize  and  which 
still  lives  for  us.  To-day  the  commercial,  diplomatic,  and 
warlike  successes  of  these  prudent  but  splendid  noblemen  and 
merchants  are  gone  forever.  It  requires  a historic  training 
to  recall  their  function  in  the  growth  of  the  modern  world. 
But  Venice  is  still  enthroned  actually  as  a City,  and  in  the 
memories  of  literature  and  art,  not  as  active,  not  as  pushing, 
not  as  all  alert  from  harsh  necessity,  but  as  beautiful  and 
charming,  and  peaceful,  and  once  a harbour  for  the  exile, 


TRIUMPHS  83 

a garden  for  art,  a refuge  of  moderation  in  the  wars  of  re- 
ligious intolerance.  In  the  picture  we  see  that  Justice  and 
Peace  ascend  the  steps  toward  the  throne,  and  that  those 
steps  are  guarded  by  the  Lion  of  Venice:  These  ideals  of  al- 
legory are  Venetian  Dames  draped  somewhat  differently  from 
their  contemporary  human  sisters,  who  once  walked  below 
the  ceiling  within  which  these  live  in  glorified  paint  and 
canvas.  In  their  day  their  slight  difference  was  sufficient 
to  remove  them  far  enough.  At  this  very  day  a little  change 
in  drapery  idealizes  our  emblematic  figures,  which  to-morrow 
will  again  indicate  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  century 
fashions  from  which  they  sprung.  Some  adjustment  of  hair, 
some  cut  of  sleeves,  something  is  sure  to  tell;  may  our  women 
hold  their  own  as  these  have  done.  The  great  globe  on  which 
Venice  sits  enthroned  means  to  us  no  longer  the  power  of  the 
sea;  then  it  established  a fact  and  had  a clear  meaning  of 
proud  allegory.  But  its  great  curve,  which  makes  most  of 
the  impression  of  the  picture  to  the  eye,  is  still  beautiful, 
still  triumphant.  And  the  Venice  who  sits  dreaming  above 
the  subject  world  of  the  sea  is  a charm  in  herself.  She  rules 
by  beauty,  by  divine  indifference;  for,  as  I said,  she  is  not  at 
all  the  necessary  allegory  of  a driving,  cautious,  and  much- 
occupied  people,  but  the  emblem  of  a refined  ease,  so  long 
acquired  as  to  be  hereditary.  Her  ermines  and  great  brocade 


84  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
and  sceptre  held  erect,  and  canopy  above  are  not  necessary 
to  her  pose  of  easy  security,  but  they  are  necessary  to  the 
picture;  the  picture  is  in  the  great  curved  lines  of  dais  and  knee 
and  edge  of  globe  and  in  the  two  erect  tangents  of  the  sword 
in  the  hand  of  Justice  and  the  sceptre  in  the  hand  of  Venice. 
Even  the  exact  parallelogram  of  the  picture  is  a perfect  choice 
for  the  inside  lines  and  suggests  large  spaces  of  an  outside 
world  in  which  this  record  of  peace  and  acquired  security 
was  seen  by  the  painter’s  mind. 

In  the  great  ceiling  picture  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  “ Glory 
of  Venice”  by  Tintoretto,  a less  quiet  genius  had  been  called 
upon  to  glorify  the  City;  a much  less  quiet  genius:  one  who 
was  disturbed  by  the  admirations  of  his  time  — desires  for 
the  line  and  the  grouping  of  the  painters  of  Florence  and  of 
Rome,  Michael  Angelo  or  Raphael,  known  by  hearsay  and 
by  drawings;  and  also  moved  by  certain  glories  of  the  great 
Titian,  near  to  his  own  origin.  A greater  tension,  thereby, 
drives  his  themes  throughout;  but  also  he  was  born  a drama- 
tist,and  none  other  of  his  school  has  told  such  powerful  stories; 
no  painter  anywhere  has  surpassed  him  in  the  suddenness  of 
his  view  of  the  stories  he  chose  or  was  made  to  tell.  And  it 
is  not  a superficial  artistic  capacity  for  line  and  arrangement; 
with  this  power  of  artistic  control  go  emotion  and  that  per- 
ception of  the  story  in  itself  which  makes  the  dramatist.  He 


TRIUMPHS  85 

is,  therefore,  finer  indeed  in  such  of  his  stories  as  mean  a great 
deal:  stories  of  Scripture  — the  Christ  before  Pilate,  where 
the  silent  prisoner  seems  to  judge  his  judge;  or  the  worn  out 
Christ  in  the  wilderness  tempted  by  that  most  beautiful 
Satan;  or  the  Crucifixions,  the  two  that  fill  the  great  space  of 
the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  or  hang  high  on  the  wall  of  San  Cas- 
siana  — each  one  another  form  of  triumph,  more  suited  to 
his  character  — more  suited  to  the  telling  of  a great  message 
than  to  the  joyful  clamour  of  success.  But  the  "Glory  of 
Venice”  is  still  a wonderful  picture;  to  the  artist  an  astound- 
ing success  — only  the  man  of  art  perhaps  may  know  how 
many  powers  go  to  such  an  easy  sweep,  to  so  much  work, 
to  such  rapid  execution,  to  such  invention  of  detail,  to  such 
difficulties  of  drawing  undertaken  with  so  little  hesitation. 
There  are  here  the  same  sources  of  line  that  we  see  in  the 
"Venice  Enthroned”  of  Veronese.  The  same  great  curve 
of  the  globe,  which  is  the  sea,  emblem  of  Venice’s  sea  power, 
determines  the  lines  of  all  the  picture.  Against  it,  from  it, 
to  it,  go  the  lines  of  movement  of  all  the  lower  figures;  sea 
gods.  Old  Neptune  with  his  trident,  his  mate  Amphitrite 
following  him,  Tritons  carrying  fish,  riding  on  sea  monsters, 
all  the  old  charming,  useless  mythology,  newer  and  more  fash- 
ionable then  than  to-day,  move  across  the  picture.  All  are 
evidently  bound  to  one  function,  which  some  have  already 


86  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
begun,  typified  by  the  sea  maiden  far  down  at  the  end  of 
our  picture,  who  has  brought  a sea  shell’s  worth  of  pearls  as 
a tribute  offering  to  the  Goddess  Venice  the  Great.  Slowly 
others  rise  from  the  curved  sea  surface,  carrying  tribute, 
branches  of  coral,  and  vases  full  of  the  waters  of  many  rivers 
that  flow  into  the  ocean  from  lands  ruled  over  by  Venice.  The 
gods  above  are  pleased.  They  recline  on  clouds,  pleased 
at  the  homage  paid  to  their  daughter,  Venice,  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  children  of  the  sea;  and  like  clouds  they  are 
spread  in  concentric  circles  below  the  great  circle  above, 
where  Venice  is  the  centre,  herself  ringed  about  with  many 
halos  and  circles  of  clouds.  She  is  the  same  Venice  that  we 
know  in  Veronese’s  triumphs;  beautiful,  good-natured,  joyful 
• — not  an  imaginary  being,  not  an  allegory  — a mere  glorified 
picture  of  her  real  daughters  and  in  their  usual  holiday  cos- 
tume. Her  very  brocades  are  those  for  sale  in  the  shops, 
the  warehouses  of  foreign  guilds,  or  made  in  her  own  lands. 
She  is  a gay  and  a kindly  mistress.  The  gods  Hercules  and 
Mercury  and  lyric  Apollo  and  Old  Time  and  others  less  clearly 
typified  sit  about  her.  They  merely  lounge  in  their  accus- 
tomed places,  for  she  is  a patroness  or  an  employer  of  their 
forces.  And  they  make  with  her  the  great  circle  at  one  end 
of  the  picture,  which  is  repeated  in  another  less  evident  way 
at  the  other  end. 


TRIUMPHS  87 

For  these  representations  of  ideas  are  like  musical  composi- 
tions; it  is  not  only  the  special  figures  looking  like  life  that 
make  this  manufactured  world  great  for  artists.  That  more 
or  less  successful  representation  of  fact  attends  those  who  are 
capable  of  the  musical  arrangement  of  the  whole  song.  It 
is  this  orchestration  which  insures  to  this  and  certain  other 
works  of  art  an  immortality  which  even  a more  accurate  copy 
of  nature  does  not  have.  Think  of  the  multitude  of  pictures 
on  decorated  wall  or  ceiling,  and  how  many  are  more  than  a 
filling  up  by  some  subject?  In  how  very  few  has  the  great 
source  of  art  been  used  — arrangement,  the  cadence  which 
keeps  all  the  notes  together. 


VII 


TRIUMPHS  — PART  TWO 


We  have  seen  how  the  greater  bend  of  a body,  the  sweep  of 
an  arm,  the  flush  of  pink  flesh  against  gray-blue  sky,  the 
looking  up  of  perspective,  have  made  the  details  of  the 
success  of  the  triumphal  paintings  of  Venice.  Venice  is 
enthroned  in  art  as  she  is  in  those  paintings.  She  lives  for 
us  in  art  and  we  could  afford  to  forget  her  otherwise,  if  it 
were  not  as  an  explanation  of  the  past.  From  that  time  she 
has  ruled  in  painting;  no  ceiling  has  spread  from  architrave 
to  arch  without  a memory  of  the  arrangements  of  Venice, 
and  nothing  has  succeeded  in  the  leit  motif  of  joy  and  coro- 
nation of  hope  unless  in  connection  with  that  past.  When 
Rubens  came  to  Venice  his  enjoyment  of  the  splendour  of 
existence,  and  of  the  suggestion  of  ample  health  and  physical 
success,  found  a source  to  drink  from.  Throughout  his 
paintings  beats  this  Venetian  orchestration,  and  when  later, 
even  by  other  hands,  he  paints  the  triumphs  of  Henry  IV 
of  France  and  of  Mary  of  Medici,  one  feels  again  that  these 
are  typical  triumphs  and  that  the  Queen,  his  subject,  is  merely 
a pretext.  Even  the  great  name  of  Henry  of  Navarre  merely 
guides  us  to  better  appreciation.  The  hero  may  be  weak 

91 


92  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
and  the  result  will  be  the  same.  So  that  in  the  very  picture 
in  which  the  boy  Louis  XIII  holds  the  reins  of  government, 
the  splendour  falls  on  him  not  because  of  his  personality, 
but  because  of  Rubens’s  idea  of  triumph.  Mary  rides  on 
horseback,  as  we  see  her  in  the  painting,  and  we  forget  the 
probable  meanness  of  what  she  may  have  been.  She  arrives 
in  France  triumphantly,  received  by  the  genius  of  France 
itself,  escorted  by  gods  above  and  by  sirens  below  — all  of 
which  relates  to  a little  princess  whose  establishment  was  a 
good  fortune  to  her  family  in  Italy.  The  orchestration  is 
that  of  Venice,  sounded  on  Flemish  instruments,  and  the 
great  pictures  are  hymns  of  triumph  not  only  for  her,  for- 
gotten, but  for  us.  Freed  to-day  from  the  dust,  and  the  dark 
of  former  placing,  most  of  them  shine  in  the  Louvre  of  to-day, 
gorgeous  in  colour  and  tone,  filling  the  walls  as  if  with  im- 
ponderable tapestry. 

Let  us  consider  some  of  these  triumphs,  these  paintings 
by  the  painter  of  pomp  and  circumstance.  It  will  be  almost 
the  last  time  in  the  history  of  painting  that  we  shall  see  splen- 
dour represented.  Once  or  twice,  in  a few  moments  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  some  chance  of  fortune  may  give  us  such 
a reminder  of  the  past,  but  apart  from  these  very  few,  which 
contradict  the  general  meaning  of  the  age,  there  will  be 
in  painting  but  a grayer  heaven  and  a more  prosaic  earth. 


PETER  PAUL  RUBENS 

MARRIAGE  OF  HENRY  IV  AND  MARIE  DE  MEDICIS 

THE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


PETER  PAUL  RUBENS 

HENRY  IV  DECIDING  UPON  HIS  FUTURE  MARRIAGE 

THE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


TRIUMPHS  93 

The  world  will  have  stiffened  into  forms  more  commercial 
and  more  practical,  ruled  and  guided  by  academic  formulas. 

It  is  difficult  to  select  from  a sequence  whose  very  abun- 
dance is  part  of  the  wonder  of  the  artist’s  success.  One  sub- 
ject after  another  rolls  out  from  this  wealth  of  imagination, 
without  doubting  for  a moment  the  amount  of  power  still 
stored  up  in  the  mind  of  the  inventor.  Any  part  of  the 
story  of  the  Queen  is  at  once  a theme  for  a new  form  of  com- 
position. Most  likely  the  subjects  were  indicated.  Nothing 
could  be  apparently  less  suggestive  than  the  subject  of  the 
painting  whose  official  title  is  “Henry  the  Fourth  of  France 
Deciding  Upon  His  Future  Marriage,”  yet  at  once  we  pass 
from  prose  into  the  spaces  of  allegory  and  courtly  mythology. 
Hymen  and  Love  present  the  King  a portrait  of  Mary,  a 
prose  portrait  such  as  Rubens  might  have  painted.  It  is 
the  portrait  of  a portrait,  for  its  flat  surface  gives  to  the 
living  figures  still  more  reality,  still  more  illusion  of  roundness 
and  of  life.  It  is  the  centre  of  the  picture;  one  cannot  escape 
from  the  meaning:  Love  points  out  to  the  King  the  graces  of 
the  offered  bride.  The  prose  of  the  picture  is  continued, 
but  with  all  the  gallantry  of  Rubens,  in  the  figure  of  Henry 
of  Navarre,  who  is  represented  as  he  must  have  looked,  an 
elderly  man,  well  balanced  on  his  feet,  a type  of  the  warrior 
of  that  day.  On  his  rich  and  gilded  armour  is  detached  the 


94  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
great  white  scarf  whose  colour,  the  mark  of  his  house,  led 
the  Protestant  chivalry  of  France  at  many  a hard  fought 
fight.  From  him  we  pass  at  once  into  pure  fancy,  marvel- 
lously connected  with  reality  by  exquisite  arrangement  of 
lines  and  colours.  The  emblematic  figure  of  France  presses 
the  arm  of  the  hero  as  if  advising  him.  France  is  dressed 
in  that  imaginary  classical  dress  just  about  to  become  the 
fashion,  and  which  the  theatre  will  take  up  and  carry  over 
to  the  next  century.  The  great  theatrical  helmet,  with  many 
feathers,  the  deep  blue  mantle,  the  half  boots,  help  to  make 
of  this  figure  a tie  between  the  realism  of  the  King’s  figure 
and  the  more  imaginative,  more  distinct  costuming  of  the 
gods  above,  Jupiter  and  Juno,  seated  on  the  accustomed 
clouds,  surrounded  and  upheld  by  their  attributes,  the 
thunder-bearing  eagle  and  the  gorgeous  peacocks  that  crown 
the  chariot  of  Juno.  The  gods,  emblems  of  conjugal  life, 
nod  approval.  Their  great  draperies,  the  Rubens  red  of 
Jupiter  and  the  Rubens  yellow  of  Juno,  are  spread  over  the 
clouds.  Below  the  clouds  stretches  a vast  landscape,  remi- 
niscent perhaps  of  the  artist’s  accustomed  sights.  Nearby, 
two  little  loves  in  the  well-known  allegorical  mood,  play  with 
the  big  helmet  and  the  shield  of  the  warrior,  as  they  might 
with  the  armour  of  Mars  in  classical  imitations. 

We  must  pass  unseen  that  picture  of  the  “ Marriage  of  the 


TRIUMPHS  95 

Queen  by  Proxy/’  which  is  the  nearest  to  a real  happening, 
which  Rubens  saw  himself,  and  which  almost  escapes  our 
scheme  of  triumph  because  of  its  qualities  of  accuracy.  We 
shall  skip  over  the  beautiful  landing  of  the  Queen  at  Mar- 
seilles, where,  in  accurate  costume  and  fair  portraiture, 
she  is  received  by  emblematic  figures  as  she  descends  from 
the  great  golden  galley  down  to  a bridge  of  boats,  amid 
the  joys  of  the  sea-nymphs  and  sirens,  the  sound  of 
trumpets,  and  waving  flags.  I have  chosen  again  another 
of  the  most  allegorical  of  the  series,  for  its  extreme  bold- 
ness, under  one  of  the  truest  of  impulses  derived  from 
classical  antiquity.  In  such  a way  as  a Roman  artist  would 
have  flattered  the  divine  emperor  and  empress,  Rubens  has 
represented  a marriage  of  Jupiter  and  Juno.  Within  their 
forms  Henry  IV  and  Mary  are  meant.  A wonderful  blend- 
ing of  the  portrait  with  the  classical  type  is  carried  through 
with  the  ease  born  of  the  long  apprenticeship  to  all  forms  of 
art.  The  constellation  of  Venus  shines  above,  within  the 
rainbow  of  good  promise,  and  Hymen  points  to  the  kindly 
influence  of  the  constellations.  The  accustomed  scheme  of 
Rubens  combines  the  colours  of  the  draperies  and  the  flesh 
in  a joyous  harmony  of  light.  Red  and  gold  for  the  dress 
of  the  Queen,  and  blue  and  white  for  her  cloak,  and  scarlet 
for  King  Jupiter  shine  out  in  front  of  the  more  retiring  green 


96  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
dress  of  Hymen.  Below,  under  the  conventional  clouds 
which  support  the  bridal  party,  the  eagle  of  Jove  and  the 
peacocks  and  chariot  of  Juno,  rises  the  City  of  Lyons  — the 
city  where  the  marriage  took  place.  Her  chariot  is  drawn 
by  the  emblematic  lions,  the  symbols  of  the  name  of  the 
city,  upon  whose  back  sit  the  accustomed  genii  of  children. 
Within  the  half  shadow  of  the  lower  figures,  the  orange  and 
the  violets  and  the  gold  of  the  chariot  make  a solemn  harmony 
purposely  less  brilliant  than  that  of  the  half  divine  group 
above.  In  the  distance,  the  real  earthly  city  spreads  to  the 
line  of  the  Mountains  of  Dauphiny,  and  the  river  Rhone 
divides  the  middle  ground. 

Let  us  skip  still  more  of  the  great  paintings,  the  great 
tapestries.  With  them  we  skip  just  so  much  of  the  history 
of  the  Queen.  Her  husand  has  died;  she  has  ruled  as  Regent; 
many  of  the  great  paintings  represent  the  official  happiness 
of  her  rule,  and  now  she  and  her  son  sail  the  seas  of  fate  in 
the  symbolic  ship.  The  Queen  has  just  given  him  the  tiller; 
her  hand  is  yet  outstretched.  The  Queen  is  still  young  and 
beautiful.  It  will  now  be  for  the  boy  to  hold  the  course. 

In  his  favour,  the  mainmast  is  really  the  figure  of  France, 
who  stands  behind  him  holding  the  traditional  sword  of 
flame  and  a globe  of  lilies.  The  virtues  of  the  nations  spread 
the  sails  and,  like  a great  garland  of  colour  and  light,  Strength 


PETER  PAUL  RUBENS 
MARIE  DE  MEDICIS  AT  PONT-DE-CE 

THE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


TRIUMPHS  97 

and  Religion,  Justice  and  Good  Faith,  pull  at  the  oars.  Along 
the  gunwale  of  the  ship,  emblematic  shields  belonging  to  this 
allegorical  crew  hang  in  the  classical  antique  fashion  to  tell 
us  what  they  are.  The  ovals  of  the  shields  collect  all  the 
curves  above  and  return  them  back  as  in  a big  garland,  such 
as  hangs  from  the  poop  of  the  vessel  of  state.  At  the  yard- 
arm the  fortunate  constellations  of  the  Twin  Brothers  make 
good  omen,  and  friendly  dolphins  and  little  fishes  of  the  sea 
toss  below  in  the  water,  painted  with  all  the  sweep  of  Rubens 
or  his  very  best  assistants. 

The  great  series  ends  in  a glorification  of  the  Queen,  rep- 
resented in  a combined  image  of  Bellona  and  Pallas.  She 
stands  upon  the  collected  trophies  of  the  enemies:  armour 
and  cannon  and  flags.  She  holds  in  the  ancient  way  a little 
golden  Victory,  and  genii  place  upon  her  helmet  the  crown  of 
Victory.  It  is  one  of  the  most  careful  of  the  series;  but, 
notwithstanding,  it  is  more  of  an  allegory,  more  of  a portrait, 
less  of  a displacement  of  fact  than  the  picture  I give.  This 
picture  is  meant  to  tell  this  small  story,  that  the  Queen’s 
troops,  accompanied  by  her,  dispersed  some  rebels  by  a little 
town  known  as  the  Bridge  of  Ce.  In  a final  place  this  paint- 
ing would  close  more  triumphantly  the  series  in  praise  of  the 
Queen’s  success  in  life.  She  rides  on  a white  horse,  with  long 
mane  and  tail  in  the  style  of  the  day,  and  she  holds  the  baton 


98  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  command  upon  her  thigh,  in  true  military  style.  Her 
white  satin  robe  is  embroidered  with  the  golden  lilies  and 
her  great  yellow  cloak  — of  the  favourite  Rubens  yellow  — 
blows  out  in  the  wind;  their  great  curves  bring  together  the 
rider  and  the  horse  — that  difficult  achievement  which  most 
equestrian  statues  miss.  The  helmet  of  the  Queen  is  studded 
with  precious  stones;  and  great  plumes,  green  and  white,  al- 
most double  the  importance  of  her  size.  Power,  holding 
the  mane  of  the  emblematic  lion  and  clad  in  deep  red  and 
yellow,  follows  the  Queen  in  attendance.  Above  her  floats 
Victory  with  wings  outspread,  and  her  green  draperies  form 
that  favourite  background  for  Rubens’s  high  colours.  An 
emblematic  eagle  breaks  up  in  the  skies  the  company  of 
emblematic  revolted  hawks,  as  below  in  the  distance  the 
chiefs  of  the  Royal  Army  accept  the  surrender  of  the  rebel 
garrisons.  Above,  to  the  right,  a trumpeter,  in  the  person 
of  idealized  Renown,  entangled  in  dull-violet  draperies, 
blows  the  trumpet  of  fame.  Those  trumpets  have  never 
sounded  since.  Flags  of  so  much  weight  and  flapping  strain 
are  only  seen  to-day  in  nature;  no  painter  tries  them  — even 
no  military  painter  of  to-day  dares  to  give  in  his  pictures  the 
struggle  of  weight  against  weight,  of  man  against  wind  and 
silk.  Once  or  twice  in  the  last  century,  in  the  paintings  of 
Gros  the  soldier,  or  the  sea  pieces  of  Turner,  or  some  of  the 


TRIUMPHS  99 

stories  of  Delacroix  the  poet,  do  we  see  this  record,  and  then 
it  ends.  It  is  strange.  When  shall  it  come  again? 

There  exists,  painted  by  the  same  great  man,  a painting, 
or  rather  the  preparation  for  a painting,  which  is  the  repre- 
sentation of  a “Triumph”  — “The  Triumphal  Entry  of 
Henry  IV  of  France  into  Paris  after  the  Battle  of  Ivry.” 
The  reasons  for  its  not  having  been  absolutely  completed 
are  as  follows:  When  Rubens  came  to  Paris  in  1 622,  to  place 
in  the  Gallery  of  the  Luxembourg  the  “Story  of  Mary  of 
Medici,”  which  we  are  discussing,  he  was  asked  before  his 
departure,  in  September  of  the  same  year,  for  a new  series 
of  colossal  pictures.  This  was  the  request  of  the  Queen,  and 
Rubens  undertook  the  work  with  alacrity  and  interest. 
We  have,  in  this  case,  the  first  impression  of  the  master, 
without  the  discount  of  his  many  helpers.  Eight  years  after- 
ward, the  King  had  again  quarrelled  with  his  mother,  and  the 
orders  were  interrupted,  to  the  great  distress  and  injury  of 
the  painter.  Six  of  these  paintings,  more  or  less  unfinished, 
were  sold  after  Rubens’s  death,  and  only  two  have  come  down 
to  us.  This  one  and  another  are  in  the  Gallery  of  the  Uffizi, 
in  Florence,  they  having  been  obtained  by  the  grand 
dukes,  and  removed  in  the  eighteenth  century  to  Italy. 
We  may,  perhaps,  see  still  further  in  this  painting  the  special 
power  and  energy  of  Rubens;  undiluted,  unchecked  by  the 


100  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
prudence  that  comes  of  necessities  and  the  toning  down  of 
the  scale  through  the  hired  help  of  others. 

The  painting  is  a gorgeous  reminiscence  and  aggrandize- 
ment of  the  sculptures  representing  Roman  triumphs. 
The  colossal  learning  of  Rubens,  his  natural  fondness  for 
pomp  and  display,  found  in  these  reminiscences  of  triumphal 
Rome  a proper  allegorical  form.  The  good  taste  of  the 
choice  is,  in  reality,  as  marvellous  as  the  use  of  it.  Wher- 
ever there  is  a chance,  some  memory  of  the  antique  is  sug- 
gested; and  combined  with  this  ornamental  and  conventional 
side,  this  recall  of  ancient  rhetoric,  are  passages  of  real  life, 
helping  to  certify  and  make  more  real  the  purely  imaginary 
passages,  contrariwise  to  what  usual  and  lesser  men  have 
been  able  to  put  together. 

Some  way  back,  in  the  long  painting,  the  King,  clad  in 
glistening  armour  and  carrying  a branch  of  olive  for  Peace, 
rides  in  the  front  of  a great  gilded  war  chariot,  against  whose 
front  he  leans,  so  that  we  see  him  only  to  mid-waist.  All 
the  more  does  this  resemblance  to  a great  sculptural  bust  or 
half  image  emphasize  the  triumphal  character,  by  condensing 
all  our  attention  on  the  head  and  arms  and  breast,  and  help- 
ing the  look  of  movement  by  the  line  of  the  great  car.  On  its 
edge  one  foot  of  Victory  is  slightly  poised,  as  she  stretches 
over  to  place  the  wreath  of  laurel  upon  the  conqueror’s  bare 


PETER  PAUL  RUBENS 
THE  ACCESSION  OF  LOUIS  XIII 


THE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO 


THE  TRIUMPHAL  ENTRY  OF  HENRY  IV  INTO  PARIS 

THE  UFFIZI 


TRIUMPHS  101 

head.  Clad  also  in  floating  white  drapery.  Fame,  floating  still 
higher,  lifts  above  the  chariot  a branch  of  palms.  Winged 
figures  sustain  the  edges  of  the  long  mantle  of  the  conqueror 
that  floats  far  behind  into  the  air.  Around  the  chariot 
march  with  the  strut  of  musicians,  trumpeters  and  soldiers, 
blowing  with  full  cheeks  through  their  horns.  Along  with 
them  walks  the  youthful  poet-laureate,  calling  out  and 
pointing  to  the  goddesses  above,  whose  unheard  voices  his 
lyre  shall  make  clear  to  the  lower  world.  Behind  these 
groups,  well  outside  of  the  picture,  through  the  skill  of  the 
artist,  come  a few  official  prisoners,  and  along  with  them, 
a part  of  the  great  crowd  that  belongs  to  shows.  Right  in 
front,  below  the  chariot,  on  the  driving  seat,  Bellona  or 
Pallas,  with  bare  arms  and  helmeted,  guides  the  white  horses 
at  whose  bits  and  cheek-straps  youthful  women,  clad  in 
white,  bend  forward  to  check  them  as  they  are  turned  toward 
the  triumphal  arch  crowned  by  another  triumphal  group 
in  marble,  of  horses  and  chariot,  and  attendants.  A small 
escort  marches  on  either  side,  lifting  the  trophies  of  armour 
and  flags,  one  of  which,  the  great  white  Bourbon  flag,  spotted 
with  gold  lilies,  tumbles  tumultuously  across  the  scene.  In 
front  ride  captains-at-arms,  draped  and  armoured  in  a mix- 
ture of  Roman  adaptation  of  the  costumes  of  the  time. 

All  this  scene  is  witnessed  and  framed  in  by  a crowd  of 


102  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
men  and  women  and  children,  mostly  seated,  who  watch  and 
acclaim  the  victors,  and  by  their  truthful  resemblance  to 
everyday  life  give  still  more  probability  to  the  imaginary 
and  the  impossible  of  the  remainder  of  the  picture. 

We  have  here  the  painter  working  for  himself  before  his 
final  changes,  and  never  has  he  been  more  successful  in  his 
poetic  recalling  of  the  Roman  antiquity,  which  he  loved  and 
studied,  and  which  was  so  eminently  fitted  to  help  him  out 
in  the  meaning  of  these  pages  of  praise  and  exultation. 


VIII 


ALLEGORIES  — PART  ONE 


I have  chosen  the  title  of  Allegory  more  as  a matter  of  con- 
venience than  as  a skilful  division  of  the  classing  of  the 
subjects  of  our  paintings.  We  shall  find  certain  beautiful 
pictures,  which  are  meant  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word 
allegory , such  as  the  beautiful  representations  of  Strength 
and  Justice,  and  so  forth,  in  Venetian  art,  or  the  weaker  but 
still  beautiful  tableaux  in  which  Sir  Joshua  has  posed  Eng- 
lish ladies  or  the  French  Prudhon  has  imitated,  as  he  believed, 
Correggio,  and  in  reality  invented  certain  dreams  of  figures 
which  have  for  motive  of  union  some  allegorical  common- 
place. In  that  he  is  not  so  far  from  Correggio  himself 
in  his  allegory  of  “ Remorse,”  and  so  forth. 

But,  to  a certain  extent,  allegory  is  everywhere  in  art. 
The  expressions  of  art  are  symbols,  and  it  is  through  these 
— over  such  a bridge  as  Delacroix  called  it  — that  we  pass 
to  get  at  the  meaning  we  choose  to  make.  So,  in  the  section 
which  I have  called  “Triumphs,”  where  Rubens  has  painted 
scenes  from  the  life  of  Mary  of  Medici,  the  representation 
of  the  realities  is  a means  of  expressing  the  idea  of  success . 
(So  have  I heard  in  the  South  Seas  noble  chiefs  declaim  and 

105 


106  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
sing  their  own  deeds  as  a beautiful  groundwork  for  poetry, 
and  song,  and  dance.) 

Thus,  in  the  early  church,  we  see  the  pursuit  of  allegory 
in  the  explanation  and  justification  of  the  scriptures,  and  of 
the  many  meanings  that  can  be  given  to  Holy  Writ.  We  shall 
remember  how  the  chronicler  tells  us  that  the  Egyptian  saint 
and  anchorite  read  the  scriptures  continually — “that  he 
might  find  therein  new  allegories.”  For  such  as  he  the  words 
were  a source  of  many  rivers  of  truth,  from  each  one  of  which 
one  could  draw  for  one’s  self  something  solid  and  something 
true,  or  again,  “like  some  vast  garden  filled  with  trees  bear- 
ing fruit,  wherein  such  minds  discover  new  and  hidden  fruits, 
and  culling  them  with  delight,  fill  the  air  with  harmonious 
song.”  And  the  allegory  is  all  the  more  beautiful  when 
embodied  with  some  reality,  some  existence  of  individuals. 
A Japanese  critic  — the  most  intelligent  critic  I have  known 
— remarked  to  me  how  cold  and  disheartening  a subject 
was  that  of  my  dear  friend  Bartholdi’s  statue  of  “Liberty 
Enlightening  the  World,”  a physical  transcription  of  an 
abstraction  already  doubtfully  uncertain.  While,  either  in 
Buddhistic  tradition  or  Christian  story,  or  even  in  the  ordi- 
nary story  of  man,  there  were  saints  and  heroes  to  whom 
one  could  ascribe  a real  human  action.  And  the  truth  of 
this  will  be  evident  as  we  consider  our  subject. 


ALLEGORIES  107 

Let  us  take  an  allegory  of  which  we  have  many  varieties 
and  examples,  many  of  them  very  beautiful,  and  which  we 
could  classify  otherwise.  This  one  will  be  chosen  out  of 
what  is  called  Religious  Art,  and  as  far  from  a distinctly 
religious  expression  as  I can  select.  It  is  Correggio’s  “Mys- 
tical Marriage  of  St.  Catherine.”  This,  of  course,  is  the  rep- 
resentation of  an  idea  of  the  symbolical  use  of  the  word 
“ marriage,”  used  in  all  languages  and  in  all  mystical  philos- 
ophy to  represent  an  intimate  union.  In  this  case  it  is 
the  devotion  of  body  and  soul  to  an  idea,  and  a representa- 
tion of  the  worship  that  belongs  to  it.  And,  of  course,  there 
is  a legend  of  Catherine  having  had  a dream  wherein  she 
had  received  a ring  from  Christ  himself,  and  “thereupon 
regarding  herself  as  the  betrothed  of  the  Christ,  she  despised 
the  world  and  the  pomp  of  earthly  sovereignty,  thinking  only 
of  the  day  which  should  reunite  her  with  her  Celestial  Lord.” 
The  legend  came  from  the  East,  where  was  born  the  Song  of 
Solomon,  and  where  the  image  of  earthly  love  and  faith  still 
represents  in  mystical  poems  the  ineffable  desire  of  union 
with  the  best  good. 

From  far  back  the  subject  was  chosen  for  religious  pic- 
tures, and  one  of  its  most  beautiful  forms  is  that  of  Mem- 
ling’s  painting  in  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century,  one  of 
the  early  triumphs  of  the  new  method  of  painting  in  oil 


108  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
colours,  that  began  the  modern  ways.  Correggio’s  painting 
is,  of  course,  later,  and  its  form,  its  manner,  indicate  the 
close  of  the  great  period,  and  are  as  far  away  as  they  can  well 
be  from  the  reticent  sentiment  of  the  Flemish  painter.  The 
beauty  of  the  painting  has  always  been  felt,  and  its  merits, 
as  pure  art,  are  still  what  they  were.  The  balance  of  light 
and  shade,  the  arrangement  of  the  pattern,  of  the  lines,  the 
sense  of  a complete  creation,  every  part  independent,  is,  of 
course,  the  method  by  which  the  artist  has  expressed  him- 
self. But  one  can  perceive  how  the  allegory  becomes  intensi- 
fied through  the  human  expression  of  these  beautiful  figures: 
the  tender  care  of  the  Virgin,  the  Child’s  half-playful  action, 
the  tender  absorption  of  St.  Catherine  in  her  receiving  of 
the  ring,  and  the  half-amused  expression  of  the  other  saint, 
St.  Sebastian,  who  smiles  upon  the  scene  as  we  do  upon  the 
innocent  actions  of  children.  The  whole  story  is  invested 
in  a sweetness  of  sentiment  that  borders  on  tho  edge  of  over- 
expression. Later  representations  by  lesser  but  by  famous 
men  become  either  too  sentimental  or  too  cold,  except  when 
the  Spaniard  infuses  into  the  subject  the  strange  passion 
and  dignity  which  ennoble  his  most  realistic  representations. 
But  they  are  right  who  admire  this  and  the  other  similar 
works  by  Correggio  from  the  very  side  of  their  sentiment. 
They  are  wrong  who,  in  such  a story  as  this,  of  family  life, 


ANTONIO  ALLEGRI  DA  CORREGGIO 
MYSTIC  MARRIAGE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE 


THE  LOUVRE 


SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
SPRING 

GALLERY  OF  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  ART,  FLORENCE 


ALLEGORIES  109 

if  we  may  so  say,  think  that  anything  can  be  too  sweetly 
expressed,  because  there,  if  ever,  the  feeling  of  mother  or 
woman  for  the  child,  and  the  softening  of  older  minds  for 
childhood,  is  what  we  see  at  all  times  about  us.  And  the 
sentiment,  however  pure,  is  almost  physical  from  that  of 
the  mother  to  that  of  the  looker-on. 

In  a certain  sense,  therefore,  we  can  look  upon  many  of 
the  pictures  representing  legends  of  the  saints  as  allegories. 
The  charming  picture  of  Memling,  again,  which  represents 
St.  Christopher  wading  the  stream  and  carrying  the  weight, 
too  heavy  for  him,  of  the  little  Christ  on  his  shoulder,  is,  of 
course,  an  allegory,  rather  than  a legend.  And  so  are  other 
pictures  of  lives  of  the  saints  or  even  the  charming  subject 
wherein  the  early  painter  represented  our  Lord  coming  back 
to  earth  to  fetch  His  mother.  In  the  same  way  as  in  Chris- 
tian story,  we  could  take  the  greater  part  of  the  stories  of 
Greek  mythology  as  allegory.  There  has  been  very  little  of 
success  in  pure  representation  qf  abstract  ideas.  As-  long  as 
such  ideas  are*  in  vested  in  a person?  either  real  or.  imaginary, 
the  success  of  the  impression,  even  as  allegory,  becomes  more 
powerful,  as  I have  attempted  to  show  above.  At  certain 
moments  of  artificial  thought  and  rhetorical  habit  some 
expressions  of  these  variations  reach  the  art  of  painting. 

The  fondness  for  allegory  at  the  end  of  the  Middle  Ages, 


110  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
which  inflicted  so  much  inferior  poetry  on  the  world,  is 
echoed  and  continued  for  a time,  in  Italian  art  especially. 
But  the  results  are  not  among  the  inspired  ones.  Sculpture 
allows  a better  chance;  the  single  figure,  whatever  it  means, 
has  its  own  existence  and  has  the  beauty  that  belongs  to 
realism.  But  painting  requires  more  subtle  expression,  and 
its  background  of  reality  protests  continuously  against  ab- 
stractions. The  Italian  sculptures,  then,  representing  ab- 
stract ideas  are  more  successful,  until  we  come  to  the  later 
forms  of  painting,  where  the  subject  is  again  treated  in  the 
idea  of  sculpture,  and  some  beautiful  pose  of  a beautiful 
figure  is  really  the  subject,  and  not  the  subtlety  or  sentiment . 
of  the  entire  work. 

It  has  required  all  the  peculiar  training  and  turn  of  mind 
of  Botticelli  to  make  his  allegorical  subject  alive.  And  it 
is  the  special  charm  of  each  figure,  the  refinement  of  the 
painter’s  sentiment  and  practice,  which  has  made  up  for  a 
certain  poverty  in  the  general  notion.  The  mark  and  fashion 
of  the  time  is  the  deficient  side  — the  artist’s  personal  feeling 
is  the  quality.  At  the  same  moment,  also,  symbolical  rep- 
resentations were  the  fashion.  The  artist  saw  tableaux 
and  choruses  elaborately  arranged  for  public  ceremonies. 
The  wonder  is  that  they  made  so  little  for  the  painter,  and 
that  their  records  are  mostly  in  books  and  not  on  canvas. 


ALLEGORIES  111 

One  wonders  at  the  poverty  of  the  paintings  of  that  moment 
which  were  inspired  by  the  literature  of  allegory,  or  by  the 
record  of  the  processions  and  ceremonies.  They  are  touched 
sometimes  by  the  grace  which  a painter  like  Botticelli  cannot 
absolutely  escape,  and  the  beautiful  habit  of  the  study  of 
ornament  gives  to  almost  all  work  done  before  our  day  of 
specialties  a something  which  even  our  greater  men  of  to- 
day obtain  only  by  struggle.  But  again,  and  we  must  never 
forget  it,  the  work  of  art  has  been  usually  a thing  ordered  to 
suit  certain  people  who  pay.  And  in  many  of  the  pictures 
that  I speak  of  I seem  to  detect  the  dictation  of  the  gram- 
marian or  the  learned  man  or  the  professor  of  literature, 
chosen  to  direct  the  painter. 

When  Botticelli  paints,  however,  the  picture  of  the  Spring,” 
in  the  disorder  of  a general  intention,  we  begin  to  have  the 
sense  of  an  abundant  poetic  meaning.  Of  course,  we  feel 
the  influence  of  those  very  sides  of  which  I spoke  — tableaux 
and  the  dances.  This  slightly  fashionable  posing,  therefore, 
is  not  unnatural,  and  is  merely  extremely  refined,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  manners  which  belong  to  the  time.  The  ball-room 
was  not  then  invented,  or  I might  say  that  the  singular  and 
yet  beautiful  group  of  the  Graces,  who  turn  in  the  circle  of 
the  dance  by  their  companion,  Mercury,  has  been  remem- 
bered from  the  group  of  some  Florentine  damsels  exhibiting 


112  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
their  most  refined  graces  at  some  great  entertainment,  devised 
by  some  Medici,  with  the  help  of  scholars  and  artists.  The 
Lady  Venus,  draped  in  the  most  exquisitely  literary  manner, 
with  sleeves  and  cinctures  of  the  day,  gives  her  consent,  and, 
as  it  were,  blessing,  to  the  Happiness  meant  to  be  represented. 
The  little  blinded  Cupid,  discharging  a fiery  arrow  from  his 
bow,  seems  a little  nude  in  the  propriety  of  so  much  dress. 
But  his  movement  of  flight,  and  the  line  that  he  makes,  is 
one  of  the  most  charming  combinations  and  closing  of  cir- 
cles ever  arranged  by  a painter.  Each  line  of  foliage,  appar- 
ently copied  from  nature,  helps  to  make  a halo  of  verdure 
around  the  central  figure,  and  helps  the  whirl  and  giddiness 
— a giddiness  not  unladylike  — of  all  the  other  figures. 
The  Goddess  Flora  steps  out  toward  us,  as  she  might  in  the 
ceremony  of  princely  rejoicing.  Her  very  smile  has  the 
delicate  complexion  of  meaning  that  we  might  expect  to  find 
in  a flower  of  intellectual  Florence.  Her  dress,  embroidered 
with  flowers,  is  the  ideal  gown  for  the  costumed  ball,  where 
great  ladies  might  try  their  most  exquisite  taste  in  the  cos- 
tuming of  some  allegory.  The  beautiful  blending  of  the  real 
and  the  embroidered  flowers  is  one  of  the  most  charming 
unrealities  ever  painted.  The  God  of  the  Wind,  who  seizes 
the  not  too  well-favoured  girl,  wrapped  up  in  many  folds  of 
drapery,  personifying  Fertility,  is  less  divine  than  the  other 


ALLEGORIES 


113 


figures.  He  is  heavy  for  the  wind,  and  his  swollen  cheek 
is  not,  perhaps,  a refined  indication  of  the  breath  of  Spring. 
But  again  the  line  and  grouping  that  he  makes  add  to  the 
general  turmoil  and  joy  of  the  occasion.  If  these  last  figures 
are  not  so  beautiful,  we  must  remember  that  perhaps  they 
were  asked  for;  perhaps  their  meaning  implied  in  the  paint- 
er’s mind  some  necessity  of  their  being  so  represented.  In 
this  case,  therefore,  he  would  be  faithful  to  the  ideas  of 
allegory. 

How  convention,  at  that  date,  represented  allegory,  we  can 
see  in  the  charming  decorations  by  Pinturicchio  in  the  Borgia 
Apartments  of  the  Vatican.  Perhaps  it  may  be  unfair  to 
single  out  these  special  representations  of  allegory  when  the 
entire  work  is  merely  decoration,  with  as  little  meaning  as 
possible  thrown  in;  in  fact,  if  one  can  say  so,  almost  avoided. 
It  would  have  been  out  of  order  at  the  moment,  and  the  place, 
where  any  real  allusions,  anything  but  fashionable  meanings, 
might  have  been  resented,  and  tripped  up  the  painter’s  future 
success.  And  the  scheme,  which  is  a charming  one  of  pat- 
tern and  colour,  might  have  interfered  with  a higher  expres- 
sion. An  architect,  however,  might  like  such  a scheme, 
which  would  be  no  more  than  the  brocading  of  the  ceiling  of 
a room.  The  charming  puppets  representing  divisions  of 
intellectual  thought  or  study  sit  pleasantly  on  their  deco- 


114  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
rated  thrones,  and  have  just  enough  reminiscence  of  the 
elegance  and  skill  of  other  work  to  avoid  dexterously  the 
question  of  the  meaning.  That,  however,  out  of  politeness, 
is  written  on  tablets,  which  are  also  part  of  the  scheme  of 
decoration. 

’ Far  different  are  the  little  paintings  that  bear  the 
name  of  “Bellini,”  in  Venice,  where  he  has  struggled  to  give 
the  twists  and  turns  of  allegorical  meaning  in  enigmatic 
figures.  But  they,  on  the  contrary,  are  full  of  a charm  of 
a physical  rendering  of  the  suggestion  of  Nature.  I mention 
them — “ Opportunity,”  “Slander,”  “Truth,”  “Love,  Mis- 
tress of  the  World,”  etc. — merely  as  a reminiscence,  before 
we  come  to  other  Venetian  painters.  If  we  come  to  the  full 
spread  of  the  Venetian  decorative  art,  which  has  influenced 
forever  the  decoration  of  modern  times,  we  shall  be  at  the 
farthest  extreme  from  the  delicate  patterning  of  such  work  as 
Pinturicchio’s,  and  at  the  same  time  we  shall  see  that  to 
continue  in  such  a way  can  only  be  given  to  a large  grasp 
of  the  art  of  painting,  and  that  the  problem  so  placed  has 
deterred  the  average  man.  Here  the  allegory  is  used  not 
only  freely,  but  with  delight.  It  animates  all  painting  but 
that  of  portraits,  and  its  feeling  permeates  the  great  religious 
pictures,  giving  them  often  the  look  which  is  abundantly 
in  the  right  meaning  of  a martyrdom  being  a triumph,  for 


ALLEGORIES  115 

instance;  so  that  St.  George,  Veronese’s  patron  saint  (in  the 
church  of  the  same  name  at  Venice),  closes  his  career  by  a 
cruel  death,  as  if  this  were  the  one  great  and  glorious  moment, 
and  the  chorus  of  judges,  executioners,  saints  and  angels 
add  so  much  of  splendour  for  such  a final  occasion.  But  such 
use  of  realities,  the  rendering  of  many  people  in  abundant 
gestures,  implies,  even  in  ordinary  technique,  a feeling  and 
a knowledge  for  the  arrangement  of  line,  similar  to  that 
needed  for  the  invention  and  orchestration  of  the  musician. 
The  great  figures  of  women,  golden-haired  and  large-armed, 
toss  through  the  pictures  of  allegorical  subjects  with  such 
freedom  that  we  can  realize  only  by  analysis  and  study  that 
their  gestures  form  a brocade  and  a pattern,  as  full  as  that 
of  the  little  set  ornamentation  of  an  earlier  date.  Therefore, 
of  course,  only  the  stronger  arm  can  bend  the  bow,  and 
no  imitation  can  be  attempted  by  weaker  brethren.  Wit- 
ness in  the  panel  representing  “Fortune,”  the  magnificent 
spread  of  the  arm  of  the  lower  figure  and  the  use  of  the  fore- 
shortening, that  is,  our  being  made  to  look  up,  so  that  all 
the  lines  converge  into  the  curves  of  a circle.  And  the 
painter  has  thrown  in,  moreover,  the  colour  of  a Venetian 
sky,  the  blondness  of  Venetian  flesh,  and  the  many  colours  of 
abundant  drapery. 

A lover  of  Italy,  an  artist  too  fond  of  Italy  perhaps,  the 


116  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
Frenchman,  Poussin,  shall  give  us  another  variety  of  allegory, 
both  in  form  and  in  invention.  His  character  was  of  the  kind 
which  would  easily  have  turned  to  the  use  of  plastic  forms  for 
abstract  ideas;  and  once  or  twice  he  has  painted  for  decora- 
tion such  subjects  as  “Time  Rescuing  Truth  from  Envy  and 
Discord.”  But  his  sense  of  implied  meaning  (which  is  what 
we  mean  by  allegory)  is  better  felt  in  such  a painting  as  this 
of  the  invented  subject,  in  itself  a creation  of  art,  “The  Shep- 
herds of  Arcadia.”  The  creations  of  Italy,  modifying  by 
mere  authority  his  love  of  nature,  have  in  this  and  most 
of  his  works  so  balanced  his  pictures  as  to  cool  what  might 
easily  have  been  a warmer  statement.  We  can  see  the 
beginning  of  that  tendency  to  a theatrical  arrangement 
which,  since  then,  has  influenced  French  art,  leaving  only 
a few  exceptions,  and  has  limited  more  or  less  the  habits 
and  sympathies  of  painters  from  that  date.  “The  Shepherds 
of  Arcadia,”  of  the  Arcadia  of  literature,  are  grouped  in  great 
beauty  of  attitude  around  a tomb.  One  of  them,  evidently 
a descendant  of  one  of  Raphael’s  frescoes,  beautifully 
balanced  on  his  staff,  points  to  the  inscription,  “And  I,  too, 
lived  in  Arcadia” — “ Et  in  Arcadia  Ego .” 

The  shepherd  looks  up  again  with  the  Raphael  eyes,  to 
a female  companion,  long-skirted  for  a shepherdess,  whose 
hand  caresses  his  shoulder  as  she  drinks  in  the  poetry  of 


NICOLAS  POUSSIN 
THE  SHEPHERDS  OF  ARCADIA 


ALLEGORIES  117 

the  meaning.  Another  shepherd  follows  the  inscription  on 
the  stone,  with  pressed  finger,  and  a fourth  one  leans  upon  the 
tomb,  following  the  movement  of  the  other’s  hand.  It  is 
a wise,  beautiful,  ponderated  arrangement  of  the  four  figures 
whose  circle  of  composition  is  continued  by  the  branches 
of  the  trees  above.  Far  down  to  the  right  drops  the  edge  of 
the  tomb,  implying  its  being  on  a height,  cutting  it  away  from 
the  possible  landscape,  and  closing  in  still  more  the  lines 
of  the  composition.  Something  monumental  belongs  to 
the  painting  — something  like  the  Latin  inscription  which 
encloses  so  much  meaning  in  abbreviated  words.  There 
is  a beautiful  but  less  finished  work  of  the  same  subject  in 
the  collection  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire.  There  the  Shep- 
herds have  just  discovered  the  tomb  and  rush  to  it  hurriedly, 
in  the  first  joy  and  emotion.  If  it  so  be  that  this  latter 
painting  is  the  first,  and  that  of  the  Louvre  a later  one,  this 
would  be  within  the  logical  unfolding  of  the  character  of  the 
painter,  his  contained  feeling,  his  sobriety,  his  withdrawal 
from  the  dangers  of  emotion.  And  the  story  of  his  life  — a 
noble  one  — runs  in  the  same  direction. 

Far  back,  with  the  importation  of  Italian  artists  into  France, 
begins  the  bureaucratic  tendency  of  French  art,  its  relation 
to  government,  its  becoming  almost  an  administrative  func- 
tion. Like  many  of  the  French  artists,  Poussin,  a type  of 


118  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
true  learning,  of  the  ideal  Academician,  suffered,  as  others 
have  done,  from  the  pressure  of  the  government  institutions 
that  regulated  painting.  He  had  left  France  as  a young  man, 
to  study  in  Rome.  There  he  pursued  a long  course  of  study 
in  every  department  of  art  which  could  build  up  thorough 
knowledge.  There  he  made  friends,  becoming  almost  a 
Roman,  living  happily  on  the  Monte  Pincio,  absorbed  in 
painting,  in  reading,  in  intercourse  with  various  men  of 
intellectual  habits.  When  he  was  asked  to  leave  his  beloved 
Rome  to  come  to  Paris  and  direct  the  ornamentation  of  royal 
palaces,  with  full  pay,  and  all  privileges,  he  hesitated  long, 
and  at  last  accepted  the  offer  of  the  King.  But  he  met  the 
pressure  of  official  intrigue  and  pined  for  the  solitary  life 
which  alone  allows  high  thinking  and  doing.  He  determined 
to  return  to  Rome,  resolving  never  to  leave  it,  a promise 
which  he  held,  dying  there  November,  1665,  having  spent  in 
the  Motherland  of  Art  nearly  half  a century.  He  is,  not- 
withstanding, one  of  the  patrons  of  French  art  whose  name 
at  least,  if  not  his  influence,  has  served  to  guide  that  Aca- 
demic tendency  which  is  a mark  of  French  culture. 


IX 

ALLEGORIES  — PART  TWO 


It  seems  far  from  the  calm  balance  of  the  last  painting  we 
were  looking  at — the  Arcadian  Shepherds  of  the  grave  Pous- 
sin— to  the  tumult  in  Titian’s  picture,  now  at  the  Prado 
in  Spain,  the  modern  name  of  which  is  “ An  Offering  to  the 
Goddess  of  Loves.”  One  might  say  that  Italy,  in  which  he 
passed  all  his  working  life  — like  so  many  others,  an  exile  for 
love  of  art  — had  only  a few  lessons  for  the  French  artist: 
the  lessons  of  Rome.  But  he  nevertheless  studied,  with 
respectful  mind,  the  works  of  the  more  living  human  art, 
the  colourists  of  Venice.  One  look  at  his  portrait  in  the 
Louvre,  however,  decides  that  the  somewhat  melancholy 
right-minded  Norman  thinker  mirrored  there  would  follow 
the  line  of  artists  whose  habits  in  art  would  allow  slower 
study,  longer  reflection,  and  inculcate  a gravity  of  appear- 
ance and  a withdrawal  from  the  crowd.  Raphael,  therefore, 
and  later  Florence  and  the  eclectic  painters  of  his  time, 
filled  out  the  staid  Frenchman’s  line  of  action.  But  he 
neglected  nothing,  according  to  Raphael’s  motto,  and  his 
paintings  are  a full  expression  of  his  mind.  We  have  seen 

that  he  usually  laid  aside  his  more  animated,  more  excited 

121 


122  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
first  impression,  to  refine  upon  variations  which  allowed  more 
careful  consideration,  more  choice  of  adjustment  or  balance 
between  the  qualities  of  sculpture  and  of  painting.  He  was 
a friend  of  Salvator  Rosa,  and  one  might  fancy  the  differing 
results  of  their  secure  discussions;  for  tradition  tells  us  how 
the  Norman  painter  was  in  the  habit  of  conversing  with  a 
chosen  few,  fond,  like  himself,  of  intellectual  contemplation. 

How  would  the  austere  painter  have  cared  for  such  a nur- 
sery frolic  as  the  great  Titian’s  picture  gives?  And  yet 
it  is  the  less  severe  man  who  is  by  far  the  greater.  There 
go  all  the  babies  as  if  tumbled  out  of  school.  But  school 
has  never  troubled  the  little  things;  nor  would  their  wings 
consent  to  remain  folded  on  benches  for  the  length  of  a les- 
son. For  most  of  these  little  loves  are  winged,  and  those 
who  are  not,  if  any,  would  soon  see  them  sprout,  if  needed. 
So  they  fly  about,  those  that  like,  and  gather  fruit  from  trees 
above;  the  wish  that  every  child  must  have  before  the  days 
of  climbing  is  answered  at  once  for  them.  And  others  cry, 
“Come  down,  come  back;  there’s  plenty  here,  and  we  have 
basketsful.”  So  they  have  and  are  cramming  for  dear  life. 
But  the  fruit  still  drops  down;  some  catch  it  cleverly;  one 
big  ball  has  fallen  on  an  astonished  baby’s  head;  in  that  land 
of  allegory  fruit  is  always  ripe  and  soft,  and  cannot  hurt 
the  softest  baby.  And  others  cry,  “We  have  found  a rabbit”; 


ALLEGORIES  123 

whereupon  they  tumble  over  one  another  for  proper  or  un- 
divided possession.  You  can  see  one  winged  one  plunging 
from  the  trees  right  down  on  the  frightened  beast  and  its 
little  circle  of  admiring  owners.  One  baby  protests  at  all 
this  selfishness;  his  little  face  puts  on  the  only  mark  of  dis- 
content, which  would  leave  it  if  he  too  could  get  into  the 
ring  of  fine  proprietors.  No,  there  is  another:  he  is  being 
choked  by  another  from  pure  affection  or  because  some  one 
wants  his  apple  as  much  as  he.  Two  in  our  near  foreground 
kiss  each  other  — baby  boy,  perhaps,  and  baby  girl  — in 
that  sudden  affection  we  have  so  often  seen.  We  can  even, 
I think,  make  out  which  kisses  and  which  lets  itself  be  kissed. 

And  there  will  be  a fight  soon;  a youngster  in  the  fore- 
ground is  aiming  an  arrow  at  another’s  apple  — as  in  the 
story  of  William  Tell. 

Meanwhile,  in  all  the  big  tumble,  one  has  had  enough, 
and  is  down  on  his  back  and  is  soon  fast  asleep. 

Meanwhile,  one  of  Mamma’s  girls  — on  the  right  there 
— calls  to  the  winged  ones  above,  with  an  empty  basket 
held  far  out.  Is  it  a request  to  fill  it  or  a ruse  to  get  them 
down  out  of  more  mischief?  Far  off  a little  circle  of  cupids 
dance  in  a ring  with  one  long  scarf  to  trip  them. 

On  all  this  picture  of  baby  bliss,  of  cheerful  plenty,  the 
statue  of  their  Divine  Mother  looks  down. 


124  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
My  description  is  too  trifling  and  familiar  for  the  essential 
gravity  of  this  gay  scene.  One  can  gauge  how  serious  it  is, 
on  what  a level  of  high  feeling,  of  noble  habitual  expression, 
by  thinking  of  the  many  pictures  of  cupids  and  babies,  and 
pink  flesh,  and  curly  hair,  that  decorate  the  walls  and  ceilings 
of  the  eighteenth  century;  whether  they  smile  in  gentlemanly 
manner  through  English  painters  — Reynolds,  Gainsborough, 
and  others  — or  sprawl  about  in  pure  artifice  through  the 
decorations  of  French  art  which  made  their  fashionable 
appeal  a century  and  a half  ago,  and  still  continue  that  same 
success  from  the  very  fact  of  their  emptiness  and  that  per- 
fect indifference  to  real  child  life.  As  I said,  this  is  a joyful 
scene,  on  a high  plane  of  imaginative  feeling.  While  they 
are  more  real,  more  absorbed  in  themselves,  and  less  of  actors 
than  the  little  personages  of  the  eighteenth  century,  whether 
portraits  or  imaginary  beings,  they  are  also,  through  the 
same  grace  of  pure  imagination,  creations  of  the  realm  of 
poetry.  They  are  what  we  should  have  liked  to  find  in  some 
antique  painting,  not  yet  discovered,  where  the  habit  of  the 
healthy  life  and  the  tradition  of  a definite  meaning  might 
keep  together  as  they  do  in  the  statues,  in  the  sculpture 
which  remains.  The  landscape,  of  course,  is  beautiful. 
It  has  a Venetian  record  of  charm;  but  the  building  or  two, 
the  church-spire,  far  away,  has  never  seen  any  such  picture 


TITIAN  (VECELLI  TIZIANO) 

THE  STORY  OF  FERTILITY  (AN  OFFERING  TO  THE  GODDESS  OF  LOVE) 

THE  PRADO 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


NICOLAS  POUSSIN 
ECHO  AND  NARCISSUS 


ALLEGORIES  125 

as  that  of  these  winged  children.  Perhaps  some  assistant, 
and  one  of  great  talent,  put  it  in;  perhaps  that  essential 
good  nature  which  especially  marks  Titian  among  the  great 
artists  — that  indifference  to  many  matters  which  are  smaller 

— has  allowed  him  to  paint  it  in  himself. 

But  the  statue  of  the  Divine  Mother  may  well  have  been 
done,  or  done  over,  by  some  heavier  hand;  she  seems  hardly 
worthy  of  such  an  imaginary  scene;  and  yet  again,  that  ex- 
treme good  nature  may  have  put  up  with  the  sufficient  rep- 
resentation of  a statue,  at  a time  when  the  antique  and  its 
remnants  were  not  so  easily  seen,  nor  so  easily  copied. 

I have  said  that  the  title  of  the  picture,  which  is  a new 
one,  is  a misnomer,  and  it  has  always  been  miscalled,  as 
indeed  have  most  paintings,  the  title  being  a modern  inven- 
tion— absolutely  modern.  This  is  a “ Story  of  Fertility” 

— of  the  growth  and  abundance  of  fruit,  and  the  birth  and 
abundance  of  children  — and,  as  we  have  seen,  there  is  no 
offering.  Those  good  little  winged  children  are  thinking 
of  themselves,  and  how  good  fruit  is,  and  that  is  better 
than  the  nonsense  of  an  offering. 

It  is  on  that  higher  plane,  within  that  larger  feeling,  that 
the  paintings  of  the  Franco-Norman  painter,  Poussin,  are 
conceived.  They  have,  in  that  way,  ample  connection 
with  such  a tone  as  this.  Thus  he  is  removed  by  sincerity 


1*6  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
and  his  intensity  of  meaning  from  the  French  painters  of 
the  time,  and  so  many  of  his  successors  in  France  who  have 
thought  that  they  kept  his  lessons.  In  the  picture  of  his 
that  I give  here  we  shall  see  him  in  his  most  natural  atti- 
tude. It  will  not  be  as  solemn,  as  defined,  as  his  greater 
works;  it  will  not  be,  perhaps,  a complete  expression  of  him- 
self — therefore,  not  one  of  his  own  masterpieces  — but  as 
it  bears  throughout  its  construction  the  mark  of  the  first 
feeling  and  the  first  record  of  the  dream,  it  has  the  advantage 
of  placing  us  in  the  confidence  of  the  painter’s  mind  — as 
we  have  said,  a fine  mind,  of  grave  intelligence,  kindness, 
and  serious  pride.  One  of  the  many  French  painters  who 
have  carefully  abstained  from  the  dangerous  favours  of 
official  patronage. 

This  is  one  of  the  mythological  subjects  of  which  the  times 
were  fond,  whose  character  would  answer  to  the  aim  of 
Poussin’s  studies, 'which  were  meant  to  unite  the  qualities 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  just  expiring,  and  the'  classical 
antique,  recently  discovered.  In  this  attempt  to  be  serenely 
wise,  and  to  gather  all  together,  he  has  often  missed  the 
record  of  what  he  also  loves,  and  what  he  had  all  about  him 
— Nature  itself,  in  its  ease  and  constant  success. 

In  this  picture,  however,  the  story  of  the  allegory  of  Echo 
and  of  Narcissus,  we  have  an  impression  of  Nature  so  easy, 


ALLEGORIES  127 

so  unthought  of,  that  the  picture  looks  like  a note  of  some- 
thing seen.  A little  more  clothing  on  the  divine  boy  — a 
little  more  on  the  nymph  — a very  little,  and  this  could  be 
a record  of  something  seen  in  Italy,  and  one  might  suppose 
that  these  were  two  shepherds  of  Southern  Europe,  each  one 
outstretched  at  ease,  on  some  day’s  excursion,  but  separated 
by  some  lovers’  quarrel,  some  indifference  on  one  side  or  the 
other;  some  of  those  things  which  spoil  the  best  of  days, 
under  skies  and  landscapes  be  they  ever  so  beautiful.  We 
know  the  story: 

The  story  of  Narcissus  runs  on  that  he  was  but  sixteen, 
and  he  might  seem  to  be  a boy  and  a young  man  as  well. 
There  was  so  stubborn  a pride  in  his  youthful  beauty  that 
no  girls  made  any  impression  on  him.  Echo,  the  noisy 
nymph,  beheld  Narcissus  wandering  through  the  pathless 
forest,  and  fell  in  love  with  him,  stealthily  following  his  steps. 
They  meet,  she  repeats  his  words,  and  they  do  not  understand 
each  other.  Believing  herself  rejected,  she  lies  hid  in  the 
woods,  and  hides  her  blushing  face  with  green  leaves;  she 
from  that  time  lives  in  lonely  caves,  but  yet  her  love  remains. 
Care  wastes  away  her  miserable  body;  her  voice  alone  re- 
mains; since  then  she  lies  concealed  in  the  woods,  is  never  seen 
in  the  mountain,  but  is  heard;  it  is  her  voice  alone  that  stays 
alive.  Thus  had  Narcissus  deceived  her,  and  thus,  too,  other 


128  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
nymphs  that  sprung  from  the  water  or  the  mountains.  Some 
one,  therefore,  thus  despised,  lifting  hands  to  heaven,  said: 
“Thus,  though  he  should  love,  let  him  not  enjoy  what  he 
loves.”  Nemesis,  the  avenger,  the  goddess  of  retribution,  the 
daughter  of  Jupiter,  heard  the  prayer  and  assented.  There  was 
a clear  spring,  like  silver,  undisturbed  by  bird  or  wild  best, 
or  bough  falling  from  the  trees,  with  grass  around  it,  and  a 
wood.  Here  the  youth,  fatigued  with  the  labour  of  hunting 
and  the  heat,  lay  down,  attracted  by  the  spot,  and  while 
endeavouring  to  quench  his  thirst,  pleased  with  the  reflec- 
tion of  his  own  form  seen  in  water,  he  fell  in  love  with  the 
thing  that  had  no  substance.  Nothing  could  draw  him 
thence,  but,  lying  along  the  overshadowed  grass,  he  pined 
away,  wasting  by  degrees,  through  a hidden  flame;  he  laid 
his  wearied  head  upon  the  green  grass,  and  night  closed  the 
eyes  that  admired  the  body  of  their  master.  His  sisters 
of  the  water  lamented  him  and  laid  their  hair,  cut  off,  over 
their  brother;  his  sisters  of  the  trees  lamented  him,  Echo 
resounding  to  their  lamentations.  And  now  they  were 
preparing  the  funeral  pyre  and  the  torches  and  the  bier,  but 
the  body  was  nowhere  to  be  found;  where  he  lay  they  found 
a yellow  flower,  with  white  leaves  encompassing  it  in  the 
middle  — the  flower  of  the  Narcissus,  whose  meaning  is 
“to  pine  away.” 


ALLEGORIES 


129 


The  boy  stretched  out  on  the  bank  may  be  asleep,  or  may 
be  just  passing  into  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking.  He 
frowns  in  some  dream,  and  has  thrown  his  limbs  apart, 
as  sleepers  do  in  unquiet  slumbers.  Perhaps  he  is  conscious 
that  the  nymph,  Echo,  is  waiting  for  him  to  return,  and  that 
this  feeling  adds  still  more  to  the  tedious  tension  of  indiffer- 
ence. She  sits  in  the  half  shade,  below  the  trees,  against 
the  rocks  into  which  she  will  later  melt,  and  she  waits  also 
for  a better  moment  or  a better  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  dis- 
dainful loved  one. 

I have  read  these  meanings  into  the  text  of  the  picture, 
but  I believe  that  they  are  there,  and  the  picture  tells  the 
same  accustomed  story.  Here  it  is  told  by  the  lines  of  the 
figures,  by  whatever  there  is  of  expression  in  their  attitudes 
and  faces,  in  each  line  of  the  rocks  and  trees,  and  helps  to 
give  the  look  of  despondent  waiting,  of  self-abandonment, 
of  drifting  according  to  Fate.  Of  course,  the  charming  figure 
of  the  little  Cupid,  with  the  extinguished  torch,  waiting  un- 
concernedly for  the  waking  up  of  the  shepherd,  helps  the  story, 
and  helps  the  beautifully  balanced  composition.  But,  like 
the  great  Titian,  and  unlike  so  many  paintings  and  so  many 
compositions  of  its  author,  Poussin,  it  has  all  the  look  of  the 
thing  that  has  happened,  of  a record  of  life,  and  not  that  of 
a result  obtained  by  giving  thought  The  note  is  rare  in 


130  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
French  art,  and  more  than  a century  will  have  passed  before 
another  artist,  Delacroix,  will  see  again  the  picture  of  a story 
as  a thing  that  has  happened,  and  which  he  has  merely 
transcribed. 

The  charm  of  child  life,  the  physical  charm,  and  its  moral 
influence  fill  in  another  way,  in  the  way  of  Christian  devotion, 
the  paintings  by  Murillo  wherein  he  used  the  fanciful  legend 
of  St.  Anthony  of  Padua  as  his  theme.  He  has  varied  the 
subject  three  times,  partly  because  the  story  admits  of  va- 
rious moments,  and  partly  because  a slightly  different  mean- 
ing attaches  to  each  variety  of  treatment.  And  also,  as  we 
must  always  remember,  some  pious  donor  might  have  dic- 
tated the  choice  or  have  suggested  it. 

That  romance  of  religion,  the  life  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi, 
in  its  baldest  details  seems  full  enough  of  poetic  fancy  and 
abundant  allegorical  meaning,  without  the  addition  of  the 
delightful  miraculous  doings  and  the  legends  of  what  hap- 
pened to  him  and  to  his  follower,  St.  Anthony,  when  no  one 
else  knew.  But  whatever  they  may  be,  however  strange, 
they  are  nothing  but  flowers  growing  out  of  the  tangled  growth 
of  the  eccentric  reality.  That  angels  should  have  conversed 
with  them,  or  the  Mother  of  our  Lord,  or  Christ  himself,  is 
not  more  miraculous  than  the  passage  of  these  men  through 
a world  more  specially  cruel  and  distressing  than  its  history 


ALLEGORIES  131 

has  shown  at  any  moment  of  record.  The  dreams  they  may 
have  had  when  alone  were  nothing  but  a continuation  of  the 
dream  they  walked  in,  living  again  the  life  of  Christ  on  earth 
in  that  form  of  Christianity  they  were  born  into.  One  of 
these  blossoms  of  legend  is  the  appearance  of  our  Lord  to 
Anthony  in  the  form  of  His  childhood,  and  of  the  Saint  hav- 
ing held  Him  in  his  arms  as  had  His  mother  eleven  centuries 
before. 

The  Christ  he  worked  for  could  scarcely  have  been  more 
real  at  the  moment  of  such  a legend  than  He  was  to  Anthony 
unseen  in  the  ordinary  course  of  life.  For  the  painter,  a 
Spanish  painter  in  love  with  reality,  and  yet  led  and  dominated 
by  the  ideals  of  mystic  life,  the  stories  of  intercourse  between 
this  world  and  the  other,  in  a tangible  form,  would  be  but  an 
expression  of  the  two  sides  of  his  nature.  Throughout  the 
Spanish  art  lives  this  realizing  of  the  subject  to  the  furthest 
extent  that  religious  emotion  has  ever  shown.  To  us  of 
different  races  — even  to  those  confined  within  the  limits 
of  Spain,  much  of  the  result  is  also  hard  to  bear.  A 
martyrdom,  the  Crucifixion  of  our  Lord,  the  sorrows  of  the 
Saints,  are  represented  with  a physical  participation  in  the 
story  that  is  often  painful.  The  Spanish  taste,  the  Spanish 
intensity,  has  not  only  accepted  it  but  has  felt  the  need  of  it. 

In  some  of  the  most  extravagant  forms  which  sculpture 


132  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
has  allowed,  the  imitation  of  real  tears,  of  actual  blood, 
marks  the  faces  and  bodies  of  the  Saints  and  Martyrs.  When 
on  feast  days  these  images,  often  astounding  works  of  prac- 
tical art,  are  dressed  in  real  clothes,  satins  or  ribbons,  the 
addition  of  fact  seems  almost  natural.  So  that  we  shall 
expect,  as  we  shall  see  in  this  painting  of  the  vision  of  St. 
Anthony,  a real  infant  Christ,  real  angels  whom  we  could 
handle,  playing  about  or  caressing  a St.  Anthony  as  true 
to  fact  as  the  Spanish  mind  could  translate.  For  he  has 
been  usually  translated  and  passes  from  a more  balanced  race 
to  a fiercer  and  more  intense  one.  Still,  if  the  scope  of  these 
essays  would  allow  it,  I should  add  the  image  of  St.  Francis 
as  sculptured  by  Alonzo  Cano,  which  is  the  most  absolute 
embodiment  of  the  ascetic,  oblivious  of  all  but  his  divine 
dream.  But  the  Saints  of  Murillo  have  not  reached  such  a 
level.  They  are,  as  it  were,  portraits  of  the  monks  that  he 
knew,  and  though  their  fervour  is  evident,  their  feeling 
is  sincere,  a something  remains  that  has  not  been  quite 
purified  perhaps  by  the  higher  meaning  intended. 

And  so  the  young  St.  Anthony,  with  all  his  sweetness, 
is  still  a man  whose  affections  have  not  yet  passed  through 
the  fire  of  experience;  not,  as  in  the  statue  of  St.  Francis  by 
Alonzo  Cano,  refined  by  the  persistence  of  one  single  idea. 
But  still  there  is  a touching  confidence  and  a love  of  the 


BARTOLOME  ESTEBAN  MURILLO 
ST.  ANTHONY  OF  PADUA 


COLLECTION  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  SUTHERLAND 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


ALLEGORIES  133 

beautiful  in  the  expression  of  the  Saint:  he  is  wrapped  up  in 
the  little  Child,  anxious  to  comprehend  Him.  Meanwhile 
the  Child,  standing  on  the  Book,  as  if  that  Book  were  His 
natural  seat  and  origin,  lifts  one  little  hand  in  blessing;  the 
other  rests,  for  balance,  in  the  welcoming  palm  of  St.  Anthony. 
The  Child’s  face  is  full  of  serious  intention  as  He  addresses 
His  servant  Anthony.  He  is  not  like  the  little  angels,  His 
companions  above,  who  float  in  the  shadow  and  light  as  a 
sort  of  canopy,  whose  movements  as  well  as  forms  are  more 
like  those  of  the  great  Titian,  that  we  have  just  seen. 


ALLEGORIES  — PART  THREE 


When  we  last  brought  together  certain  paintings  which  we 
called  Allegories,  deciding  to  look  at  them  from  a point  of 
view  which  was  meant  to  assume  that  their  representation, 
the  story  that  they  told,  was  a manner  of  embodying  some 
general  idea,  all  the  paintings  we  then  considered  were 
masterpieces  of  execution.  Titian,  Murillo,  even  Poussin 
and  Botticelli,  were  masters  of  their  trade  apart  from  their 
set  value  as  divine  executants.  They  belonged  to  periods 
when  the  art  of  painting  was  handed  from  one  man  to  another, 
as  it  were,  in  one  piece,  to  be  improved  or  worked  over, 
but  at  any  rate  in  a fixed  body  of  practice:  I say  practice,  and 
not  doctrine,  for  the  beauty  of  the  older  work  which  we  think 
of  as  Academic  is  that  it  was  not  Academic  and  that  the 
school  is  a very  different  thing  from  the  Academy . It  was 
in  the  air,  in  the  feeling  of  the  time,  that  each  capable  artist 
should  advance  the  entire  art  by  some  improvement  upon 
previous  practice.  Hence  the  extraordinary  evolution  both 
in  quality  and  in  rapidity  of  the  Italians  and  the  Spaniards. 
They  have  had,  as  it  were,  the  good-will  of  the  community 
of  artists  in  their  discoveries  of  new  lands,  more  beautiful 


137 


138  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
countries  in  art.  Later,  with  the  breaking  up  of  many  old 
systems,  came  the  reign  of  the  Academy,  of  fixed  teaching 
which  represented  a doctrine,  to  which  the  coming  man 
conformed  himself,  and  was  approved  of  by  his  fellows  or 
the  public,  according  to  his  proving  that  the  one  thing  he  dis- 
liked was  originality:  that  is  to  say,  the  'personal  addition 
to  the  store  of  his  knowledge,  the  quantity  and  quality  of 
beauty,  already  fixed  by  accumulation.  The  social  evolu- 
tion of  the  last  two  hundred  years  has  been  in  that  direc- 
tion; so  that  attempts  at  change  have  been  perforce  revo- 
lutionary. They  have  been  revolutionary  even  when  the 
artist  had  no  further  intention  than  to  carry  out  the  meaning 
of  the  lesson  of  his  Academy.  Nothing  is  more  touching 
in  the  story  of  the  nineteenth  century  than  the  belief  of 
Corot,  of  Decamps,  of  Delacroix,  of  Rousseau,  of  Millet 
and  others,  in  the  old  masters,  held  up  to  them  as  models, 
while  what  their  teachers  meant  was  that  the  younger  gener- 
ation should  work  in  the  manner  of  its  living  teachers.  It 
is  not  so  far  from  the  idea  that  the  young  scholar  in  the  liter- 
ary academy  should  wish  to  carry  out  the  literary  tendencies 
of  Shakespeare  or  Milton  or  Pope  or  Wordsworth  or  Keats, 
instead  of  the  more  current  forms  of  his  professor  of  rhetoric. 
But  there  are  more  people  necessarily  interested  in  literature 
than  in  painting,  so  that  the  possibility  of  closing  out  the 


ALLEGORIES  139 

younger  believing  mind  is  more  difficult,  and  the  public  is 
more  ready  to  welcome  the  change  which  it  appreciates. 

These  considerations  come  up  naturally  upon  thinking  of 
the  work  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  whom  we  know  here,  for- 
tunately, through  his  having  done  some  work,  not  his  most 
important,  but  still  noble  work,  in  the  Public  Library  of  Bos- 
ton. It  is  then  far  away  from  the  easy  confidence  of  those 
earlier  painters  whom  we  last  saw,  and  their  certainty  of 
being  able  to  express  themselves,  to  the  works  of  this  French- 
man, who  is  still  a descendant  by  culture  from  that  other 
French  painter,  Poussin,  whose  allegories  we  admired  to- 
gether lately. 

Puvis  de  Chavannes,  who  died  a few  years  ago,  had  not 
the  ample  poise  in  the  use  of  painting  to  which  all  these 
predecessors  of  his  had  been  trained. 

He  was  a genuine  product  of  the  uncertainty  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  The  men  with  much  to  say,  with  abundant 
feeling,  born  in  that  century,  found  many  roads  open  to  choose 
from,  and  many  methods  of  mechanism  in  painting,  and  none 
of  such  perfection  as  to  allow  them  to  walk  confidently, 
without  studying  over  again  most  of  the  questions  of  their 
art.  To  Puvis  it  seemed  necessary  to  throw  overboard  a 
great  many  manners  of  expression  — a great  deal  of  the 
wealth  of  art  — so  as  to  secure  the  qualities  and  the  values 


140  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
he  preferred.  In  that  he  is  not  so  unlike  the  great  Poussin, 
and  this  logic  of  abstention,  this  willingness  to  sacrifice  a 
great  deal  for  a worthy  end,  has  kept  his  paintings  somewhat 
away  from  public  sympathy.  Had  they  been  painted  on 
small  canvases  and  hidden  in  private  collections  it  would 
be  a question  whether  his  fame  might  not  be  a thing  yet  to 
be  made.  But  he  painted  for  the  public,  that  is  to  say, 
on  the  walls  of  public  buildings,  and  his  means,  if  not  large, 
being  sufficient  for  his  existence,  he  was  able  to  keep  the 
great  pages  of  his  work  open  to  the  public  sight,  however 
indifferent  that  look  might  be.  Slowly  the  respect  of  artists 
impressed  the  public,  and,  half  unwillingly,  the  public  — in 
reality  more  pleased  with  other  work  — admitted  the  value 
of  his.  So  that  he  stands  high  in  the  record  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  and  the  reference  to  his  work,  among  artists, 
is  perfectly  understood.  From  many  circumstances,  includ- 
ing that  one  of  securing  the  painting  of  great  surfaces  in 
buildings,  where  subjects  are  inevitably  of  a general  char- 
acter, and  partly  because  of  some  trend  of  his  nature,  he  was 
naturally  a painter  of  allegories,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  meaning 
contained  in  things,  and  of  only  so  much  of  the  things  them- 
selves as  would  help  out  this  meaning.  This  is  so  even  in 
his  drawings  of  landscapes  (of  which  we  have  spoken), 
which  are  so  beautifully  combined  with  his  stories,  and  also. 


I 


BOSTON  PUBLIC  LIBRARY 


ALLEGORIES  141 

though  few  know  it,  permeated  by  the  meaning  of  the  actual 
landscape  in  which  he  supposes  his  figures  placed;  that  is 
to  say,  of  certain  parts  of  France,  with  the  special  charac- 
teristics of  the  growth  of  nature.  Thus,  as  do  the  Japanese, 
he  rarely  made  studies  from  nature  for  his  trees.  He  learned 
their  method  of  growth,  what  made  the  difference  between 
one  variety  and  another,  and,  as  he  said,  “It  is  then  easy  to 
see  how  such  a particular  tree  would  appear  in  such  and 
such  a condition.”  So,  when  he  had  freed  himself  from  his 
first  influence,  this  same  tendency  led  him  to  choose  general 
expressions  and  to  create  scenes,  based  on  what  he  imagined, 
rather  than  to  begin  from  an  actual  sight.  This  is  not  to 
say  that  he  began  by  an  abstraction.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  fairly  on  record  that  his  creations,  which  are  often 
somewhat  of  abstractions,  came  from  his  having  seen  certain 
things,  certain  accidents,  happening  in  nature.  In  that 
way  he  was  a real  painter  — a person  strongly  impressed 
by  the  entire  vision  of  the  outside  world.  But  he  chose  to 
use  this  reality  of  the  outside  world  as  a place  for  his  imagi- 
nary beings;  in  which  he  is  not  singular,  only  that  he  carried 
these  imaginary  figures  far  away  from  reality,  as  far  as  he 
dared,  indeed,  trying  to  remain,  as  he  said,  parallel  to  nature, 
travelling  on  some  special  road  that  kept  it  in  sight  without 
being  in  it.  As  a proof  of  my  remark,  and  as  an  explanation. 


142  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
I believe  that  he  has  left  a record  of  how  the  sight  of  a herd 
of  swine  brought  suddenly  to  his  mind  the  manner,  the 
possibility,  of  his  representation  of  the  story  of  the  Prodigal 
Son.  And,  as  I remarked,  he  is  in  that  way  not  different 
from  other  artists,  painters  or  sculptors,  or  poets  to  whom 
some  side  issue  brings  up  out  of  abundant  memories  a more 
important  memory  and  the  wish  to  embody  and  carry  out 
this  last  suggestion.  Indeed,  this  working  of  his  mind  would 
lead  him  naturally  to  replace  one  picture  seen  or  thought  of 
by  another  containing  the  same  meaning.  This  is  a manner 
of  definition  of  an  “allegory”  — that  is  to  say,  one  idea  being 
used  to  represent  another.  Occasionally  he  was  obliged  to 
think  first  of  the  necessary  subjects  placed  before  him  by  the 
circumstances  of  the  buildings  which  he  was  called  upon  to 
decorate.  There  again,  however,  he  insisted  on  his  own 
picture:  that  is  to  say,  his  own  subject,  provided  it  had  suffi- 
cient meaning,  as  against  what  often  the  authorities  in  charge 
of  buildings  wished.  He  declined  a great  commission  in  a 
great  city  because  the  committee  in  charge  insisted  upon 
having  certain  subjects  represented  in  the  series.  He  had 
its  equivalent  in  meaning  and  he  was  unwilling  to  have  his 
imagination  work  second-hand. 

Because  he  painted  for  buildings  wherein  we  use  much 
conventional  allegory,  he  was  led  to  put  aside  the  usual 


ALLEGORIES  143 

conventions.  Thus,  instead  of  a female  figure  posing  for 
“Astronomy,”  stretching  perhaps  her  compasses  over  a starry 
globe,  such  as  we  frequently  see,  he  has  painted  the  Chal- 
dean Shepherds  in  the  desert  noting  the  planets  in  the  quiet 
of  the  night.  This  choice  of  a manner  of  representing  the 
subject  of  astronomy  was  used  by  Delacroix  a good  many 
years  before  Puvis,  and  probably  influenced  his  choice. 
The  figure  of  “Lyric  Poetry”  for  him  is  not  such  a convention 
as  one  of  the  Muses,  with  arm  extended  over  the  lyre,  but  as 
in  the  Boston  Library,  iEschylus  sits  by  the  blue  sea,  where- 
upon he  had  seen  the  ships  of  Persia  sunk  by  the  smaller 
galleys  of  his  own  Greece,  and  before  him  the  poet  sees  rising 
from  the  waters  the  daughters  of  Oceanus,  who,  in  his  verses, 
shall  come  to  comfort  the  sorrow  of  Prometheus.  Thus, 
also,  in  the  same  Boston  paintings,  along  the  wires  of  the 
telegraph,  pass  the  rapid  figures,  white  and  black,  which 
carry  good  and  evil  news  and  typify  “Electricity.”  In  the  last 
of  his  mural  pictures,  painted  under  grave  domestic  circum- 
stances, he  has  painted  St.  Genevieve,  in  the  series  of  her 
story,  on  the  walls  of  the  Pantheon  in  Paris,  not  as  any  special 
Saint,  any  characterized  individual,  but  merely  as  an  elderly 
draped  woman,  who,  standing  in  the  moonlight,  above  a city, 
by  the  door  of  her  little  house,  watches  the  great  spread  of 
roofs,  and  streets,  and  towers,  and  a long  white  river  reflect- 


144  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
ing  the  moon.  That  is  the  ideal,  the  allegory  of  St.  Genevieve, 
the  Patroness  of  the  City  of  Paris,  and  she  watches  the  For- 
tunes of  the  Town  which  is  unconscious  of  her  protection. 

It  is  sufficiently  known  to  all  of  us  that  this  is  a memento, 
a parallelism  of  his  wife  who  had  just  died  when  he  painted 
this  picture  and  whose  loss  he  did  not  survive  for  any  length 
of  time.  Indeed  his  own  end  was  hastened  by  this  loss,  which 
is  properly  memorialized  in  the  painting.  I have  used  the 
word  parallelism  expressly  because  that  lady  had  herself 
watched  over  the  fortunes  of  the  painter  for  many  years. 
Far  back,  long  before  her  marriage  to  him,  she  had  advised 
him,  had  followed  his  work  almost  daily,  had  directed  the 
email  matters  which  tell  so  much  in  a painter’s  work,  the 
preference  of  one  variety  of  gesture  over  another,  the  arrange- 
ment of  a drapery  — all  that  is  a matter  of  choice  and  reflec- 
tion and  good  taste.  This,  wTith  many  artistic  minds,  is  an 
habitual  necessity.  That  is  to  say:  a careful  revision  and 
consideration  of  many  details;  for  the  minds  of  workers  are 
various;  some  arbitrary,  some  pressed  or  decided,  but  others 
hesitating  and  prudent  and  reflective  even  if  stubborn  after 
decision.  And,  indeed,  it  was  long  before  this  painter 
found  the  form  into  which  he  grew,  and  in  which  we  know  him. 
So  that  this  story  of  a friendly  Egeria  is  a symbol  of  his  devel- 
opment, as  it  is  the  reality  of  the  influences  which  have  left 


PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES 
ST.  GENEVIEVE  WATCHING  OVER  PARIS 

THE  PANTHEON,  PARIS 


PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES 
PEACE 


PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES 
SLEEP 

COLLECTION  OF  T.  M.  DAVIS,  NEWPORT 


-as 

. 


ALLEGORIES  145 

their  mark  in  those  paintings  of  his  that  we  know  best. 
And  these  influences,  both  personal  and  intellectual,  came 
to  him  from  an  artist  who  has  left  little,  from  having  died 
at  the  moment  of  his  coming  to  a decided  form  of  expression. 
To  us  over  here,  and  to  the  greater  mass  of  artists,  for  many 
years  he  was  almost  unknown,  though  for  a brief  moment, 
just  fifty  years,  he  was  the  brilliant  new  light  which  was  to 
combine  the  differing  fires  of  the  classical  and  romantic 
schools.  This  was  Theodore  Chasseriau,  from  whom  our 
painter  inherited  this  friendship,  as  well  as  the  teaching  and 
advice  and  influence  that  men  are  able  to  give  to  one  another 
at  certain  moments  of  early  life,  when  the  teaching  and  the 
advice  are  more  insinuating  and  less  rigid,  and  addressed  also 
to  minds  less  rigid  in  their  settling.  One  of  the  paintings 
of  the  earlier  days  of  Puvis  is  a type  of  this  moment  of  im- 
pressions received  from  different  sources.  It  has  reminis- 
cences of  the  great  Italian  painters  and  of  the  men  of  his  own 
time,  including  one  whom  he  cared  little  for,  though  he  had 
for  a moment  studied  under  him.  That  is  another  painter 
of  a half  century  ago,  somewhat  known  to  us  and  at  one  time 
especially  known  to  Americans,  and  a man  who  had  many 
American  pupils.  That  is  Thomas  Couture,  some  of  whose 
paintings  are  in  our  museum  here  as  well  as  in  various  other 
collections.  He  was  at  that  time  a considerable  teacher  and 


146  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
one  of  the  promising  men:  a great  executant  and  somewhat 
aggressive  personality.  But  he  had  no  teaching  which 
could  supply  to  such  a constructive  mind  as  Puvis’s  any  great 
scheme  of  self-training  or  manner  of  working  which  would 
make  a unity  of  feeling  and  of  execution. 

What  is  singular  in  the  picture  which  I now  refer  to,  the 
allegory  of  Peace  in  the  City  Hall  of  Amiens,  is  this:  that 
though  fresh  from  his  admiration  of  the  earlier  Italians,  an 
admiration  which  he  never  lost,  there  is  no  mechanical  sign 
of  it  in  this  masterpiece.  Perhaps,  indeed,  there  is  none 
distinctly  traceable  in  the  details  of  his  work,  though  some 
more  subtle  influence,  too  fine  for  analysis,  may  have  come 
from  there  and  lived  in  these  paintings  where  later  forms  are 
more  distinctly  the  mark.  This  painting  of  Peace  began  our 
master’s  reputation,  though  it  began  also  a long  series  of 
attacks  from  the  critics  for  every  possible  defect  that  an 
artist  can  be  charged  with.  We  forget  these  things;  they 
must  often  have  discouraged  the  solitary  artist  struggling 
for  recognition,  and  still  more  seriously  striving  for  control 
of  himself  within  his  ideas  of  art. 

Peace  is  the  subject;  there  has  been  war,  and  now  the  strife 
has  stopped,  and  armed  bands  make  friends  with  the  people 
of  the  imaginary  land  they  have  occupied.  The  warriors 
rest,  or  exercise  their  horses  under  the  shadows  of  great  trees 


ALLEGORIES  147 

and  high  cliffs.  Peasants,  or,  rather,  the  imaginary  inhabi- 
tants of  the  land,  bring  to  them  fruits,  or  fill  their  cups 
from  the  udders  of  their  flocks.  Across  the  stepping-stones 
which  spot  the  little  brook,  near  which  the  former  enemies 
meet,  figures  hurry,  bearing  food  baskets  in  their  arms  and 
on  their  shoulders. 

The  picture  is  well  named  “ Peace, ” though  there  is  a slight 
ambiguity  with  regard  to  the  momentary  action  of  the  war- 
riors, who  ask  for  food  and  are  being  entertained.  They  have 
not  absolutely  put  aside  their  armour,  and  they  might  be  some 
noble  raiding  party  of  heroes,  halting  in  some  happy  valley, 
or  on  the  edge  of  some  Sacred  Wood  where  “Peace”  was 
enthroned  by  sacred  privilege.  Nevertheless,  even  then, 
it  is  a halt,  repose,  a manner  of  “Peace.” 

Here  again  is  the  story  of  Rest  in  the  painting  called 
“Sleep,”  when  after  the  day’s  work  in  the  warm  air  a number 
of  figures,  men  and  women,  old  and  young,  are  absorbed 
in  sleep.  Every  line  means  sleep,  a cessation  of  labour; 
even  the  spread  of  the  landscape,  the  droop  of  the  branches, 
the  entire  lighting  of  the  picture  is  that  of  Rest. 


XI 


THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH 


In  1902,  at  an  exposition  at  Bruges,  while  looking  with 
me  at  that  celebrated  painting  by  John  Van  Eyck  where 
St.  Donatian  stands  clad  in  a cope,  so  painted  that  even  a 
photograph  could  not  have  a greater  appearance  of  ease 
of  execution,  an  intelligent  Oriental  asked  me  why  the  men 
who  did  such  work  were  called  “ primitives, ” when,  certainly, 
no  painter  of  to-day  could  hope  to  rival  the  wonderful  exe- 
cution of  that  time,  now  some  five  hundred  years  ago.  The 
question  seemed  natural  — five  hundred  years  had  done  less 
damage  to  the  paintings  of  the  early  Flemish  than  the  last 
thirty  or  forty  years  have  done  to  most  modern  paintings. 
The  panels,  where  they  remained  intact  from  restoration,  still 
glowed  with  a richness  and  a delicacy  of  colour  that  made 
them  a pleasure  to  the  senses.  A feeling  of  complete  and 
finished  work,  based  on  long  experience,  was  the  steady 
impression;  and  yet  we  were  looking  at  the  first  paintings 
made  in  the  modern  way;  that  is  to  say,  according  to  the 
custom  that  we  call  oil-painting.  From  one  point  of  view 
these  painters  were  properly  the  “primitives”;  they  were 
the  first,  and  within  a single  lifetime  they  had  developed 

151 


1 52  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
this  process  of  painting  so  far  that  there  might  be  variations, 
but  there  could  be  no  improvement.  What  was  lacking  to 
them  were  the  previous  combined  studies  of  many  men;  what 
we  have  to-day:  a full  knowledge  of  anatomy,  or  perspec- 
tive, and,  moreover,  the  influence  of  the  pagan  past.  But  the 
wonderful  grasp  of  sight,  the  feeling  for  the  reality  of  things, 
the  analysis  of  character,  the  exquisite  lighting,  as  well  as 
the  rich  and  harmonious  colouring,  and  above  all,  a singular 
and  separate  spiritual  expression,  so  satisfied  the  eye  and  the 
mind  that  one  could  forget  that  others,  still  greater,  had 
painted  since  that  day.  And  the  wonder  remained  that  a 
couple  of  men  had  passed  from  the  inefficiency  of  the  painting 
of  the  Middle  Ages  to  such  complete  perfection  in  the  course 
of  a few  years.  Of  course,  they  had  around  them  the  splen- 
dours of  stained  glass  and  of  painted  and  gilded  architecture 
and  statuary.  John  Van  Eyck,  we  know,  had  also  been  a 
painter  of  statues,  and  we  even  know  what  he  was  paid  for 
such  work.  His  elder  brother  must  also  have  been  trained 
in  that  way,  and  his  invention  of  a beautiful  way  of  painting 
is  simply  based  on  the  experience  of  previous  decorative  work. 
Hubert,  the  elder,  began,  and  John,  the  younger,  continued, 
the  system.  Hubert  died  in  1426,  having  begun  the  great 
triptych  of  St.  Bavo  at  Ghent.  John,  his  younger  brother, 
finished  it  in  1432,  and  died  July  9,  1440.  In  twenty  years 


THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH  153 

they  had  completed  a first  expression  of  things  in  correct 
and  exact  forms,  had  given  the  first  realization  of  air,  and 
sky,  and  landscape  in  truthful  colour,  with  the  richness 
of  reality,  and  within  this  first  correct  physical  repre- 
sentation of  all  that  we  see  together  they  had  imparted 
to  the  creatures  placed  within  their  pictures  a spiritual  life, 
a delicacy  of  sentiment,  or  a distinctness  of  character  which 
was  never  to  be  excelled,  notwithstanding  that  nobler  forms 
and  grander  movements  would  belong  to  later  artists.  Al- 
most all  that  was  to  be  discovered  had  been  opened  up. 

It  may  be  difficult  to  determine  the  proportion  of  each 
brother’s  task  in  the  triptych  “The  Worship  of  the  Lamb.” 
Hubert  painted  the  great  figures  that  accompany  the  subject 
— the  Heavenly  Father,  the  Virgin,  St.  John,  and  Adam  and 
Eve,  parts  of  the  great  work  which  I do  not  reproduce.  The 
story  is  in  the  long  centre  panel  and  the  side  ones  which 
continue  the  landscape  in  which  the  figures  are  placed.  In 
the  vast  space  of  this  earliest  of  landscapes,  under  real  light, 
a pale  sky,  bluer  above,  sheds  the  light  of  a beautiful  morn- 
ing on  a wide  park  of  grass  and  flowers,  framed  by  distances 
of  hills,  hidden  behind  trees  and  bushes  of  myrtle  and  orange 
filled  with  flowers  and  fruit.  Behind  the  darker  hills,  edged 
by  palm  and  cypress,  rise  the  ecclesiastical  towers  of  the  New 
Jerusalem.  In  the  centre  of  the  Park  of  Paradise  is  placed 


154  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
the  altar  and  table  draped  with  purple,  and  upon  it  stands 
the  White  Lamb  of  Sacrifice.  Around  the  altar  kneel  the 
adoring  angels;  some  of  them  toss  censers,  others  hold  the 
symbolic  images  of  the  Passion.  They  are  clad  in  white 
or  in  pale  blue,  or  rosy  gray.  Around  them  is  a sacred  space 
of  untrodden  grass,  spotted  with  white  stars  of  innumerable 
daisies.  Right  in  front,  by  us,  is  the  Fountain  of  Life  sending 
up  a jet  of  water  that  falls  back  into  a marble  basin  running 
over.  By  it  kneel  a mass  of  prophets,  in  far-away  oriental 
costumes,  their  books  open  in  their  hands,  as  if  following  on 
the  altar  the  accomplishment  of  their  words.  Next  to  them 
are  a crowded  group  of  men  in  strange,  foreign  costumes, 
draped  and  mantled  and  bearded.  They  are  those  who, 
from  the  beginning,  have  announced  the  Christ,  or  have  de- 
veloped doctrine,  or  in  some  shape  kept  up  the  spiritual 
thought,  whether  in  belief  or  doubt.  There  are  ancient  bards, 
pagan  doctors,  philosophers,  or  unbelievers,  and  they  accept 
or  hesitate,  according  to  their  character.  An  extraordinary 
reality  of  expression,  with  scarcely  a movement,  gives  the 
sense  of  abundant  meaning.  They  represent  the  world  of 
thought  before  and  after  Christ. 

On  the  right-hand  side  of  the  fountain,  as  a balance  to 
the  kneeling  prophets,  kneel  also  the  twelve  apostles,  all  in 
pale  violet,  their  hands  lifted  in  prayer  — men  with  great 


THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH  155 

beards,  long  hair,  and  powerful  features,  contrasting  again 
with  the  right-hand  standing  group  of  the  officers  of  the 
Church:  priests,  bishops,  archbishops,  popes  and  monks, 
mostly  shaven,  following  the  text  of  their  prayer-books, 
adoring  in  the  full  security  and  continuance  of  their  office, 
and  clad  in  all  the  splendours  of  Church  vestments,  em- 
broidered with  gold,  and  pearls,  and  rubies,  and  emeralds, 
which  play  on  the  rich  red  of  their  many  draperies.  Each 
one  of  these  ecclesiastics  looks  like  a portrait  in  every  detail. 
Far  back,  issuing  from  green  woods,  come  the  Chorus  of  the 
Holy  Women.  They  are  clad  in  pale  blue  and  rose  colour 
and  lilac,  and  we  discern  each  face  in  a gentle  monotone  of 
variety. 

On  the  left,  farther  back,  to  balance  the  assembly  of  the 
women,  comes  the  beginning  of  the  noble  army  of  martyrs. 
They  are  mostly  bishops  or  churchmen,  of  high  rank — what 
we  see  of  them  — and  they  are  clad  in  symbolic  blue  mantles ; 
they,  like  the  women,  carry  the  palm  of  triumph. 

In  the  four  side  panels  the  Army  of  the  Just  ride  or  walk 
to  join  the  Holy  Company  of  the  centre  panel.  No  greater 
poem  of  Holy  War  has  been  made  than  the  group  of  knights 
who  ride  past  on  their  war-horses,  clad  in  armour,  holding 
their  banners,  guiding  their  horses  with  steel  gauntlets.  The 
serene  and  resolute  faces  are  like  a portrait  of  Mediaeval 


156  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
chivalry,  and  for  the  first  time  in  painting  we  see  the  horse 
fully  represented  in  weight  and  strength  and  solid  tread. 
Behind  the  knights  ride  the  Company  of  the  Just  Judges, 
clad  in  garbs  of  peace  or  office,  their  faces  portraits  of  con- 
sciences clear  of  wrong.  Tradition  makes  one  of  them  to 
be  the  portrait  of  the  older  painter.  Behind  him,  on  a darker 
horse,  rides  his  brother,  who  completed  the  picture.  But 
this  is  mere  tradition,  perhaps  of  a later  day. 

In  the  two  right  panels,  round  the  base  of  one  of  the  rocks 
that  enclose  the  Paradise,  comes  a straggling  band  of  pilgrims 
— ascetics,  monks,  saints  of  the  desert,  bareheaded,  with 
pilgrim  hats  or  folded  cloths  upon  their  heads,  each  one 
according  to  his  story.  Among  them,  as  a manner  of  leader, 
stalks  St.  Christopher,  the  giant,  the  long  wading-pole  in 
his  right  hand,  and  draped  in  a single  cloth  of  red.  Long, 
matted  hair,  and  rosaries,  and  staves  belong  to  most  of  these 
anxious  followers  of  the  Truth.  Behind  them,  emerging 
from  some  cleft  in  the  rocks,  are  the  contrasting  forms  and 
features  of  two  women,  saints  of  the  desert  probably:  Mary 
Magdalen,  certainly,  and  Mary  of  Egypt,  perhaps.  The 
gentle  faces  and  calm  expressions  accentuate  still  more  the 
energy  of  the  male  pilgrims.  Against  the  sky,  in  the  farthest 
corner,  stand  a solitary  palm  and  cypress,  which  also  close 
the  scene,  and  add  to  its  surprising  reality.  Its  reality  is  of 


THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH  157 

the  most  simple  and  visible  description.  It  is  more  than 
realism.  It  is  an  abstraction  of  reality,  and  contrariwise 
to  the  imitations  of  the  real,  a realization  of  facts  taken  from 
nature.  All  this  elaboration  of  facts,  this  accumulation  of 
little  details,  almost  prosaic,  recalls  a dream,  and  forces  the 
mind  to  the  perception  of  some  latent  meaning  — of  some- 
thing inexpressible,  either  by  words  or  other  forms  of  art. 
In  that  way  it  is  a masterpiece  of  masterpieces,  of  a value 
far  beyond  even  the  astounding  merits  of  its  artistic  exe- 
cution. And  tradition,  which  gives  its  order,  its  arrange- 
ment, and  its  programme  to  the  older  brother,  is  probably 
in  the  right.  No  other  painting  of  John,  the  younger,  not- 
withstanding its  beauties,  would  carry  in  its  realism  that 
strange  message  that  only  a great  man  can  send. 

One  would  like  to  know  what  Albrecht  Diirer  said,  and  what 
he  thought,  when,  late  in  life,  having  accomplished  so  much, 
after  seeing  Italy,  he  looked  at  this  picture  — the  full  bloom 
of  what  he  had  tried  to  do  as  a younger  painter,  when  he 
sought  to  study  under  Martin  the  Beautiful,  of  Colmar. 
He,  almost  alone  besides,  in  his  great  painting  of  “The 
Trinity,  Adored  by  All  the  Saints,”  painted  just  one  hundred 
years  later,  has  been  able  to  use  persistent  literal  realism  as 
a means  of  suggesting  a spiritual  impression.  But,  in  Dtirer’s 
great  work  the  effort  is  more  visible,  as  well  as  the  mechanism. 


158  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
As  painting,  it  has  not  the  astounding  perfection  of  the 
earlier  work,  nor  does  its  energy  replace  the  sweetness,  based 
on  power,  of  the  great  Van  Eyck. 

In  1436,  four  years  after  the  painting  of  the  “Lamb,” 
John  Van  Eyck  finished  the  picture  called  “The  Virgin  and 
St.  Donatian.”  It  is  the  ancient  work  which,  however, 
realizes  most  of  the  demands  of  modern  art.  The  art  of 
painting  would  seem  entirely  expressed  in  this  realization 
of  a scene.  It  is  a transcript  of  nature,  spiritualized  by  its 
wonderful  execution,  by  the  accuracy  of  its  observation,  and 
the  art  through  which,  without  apparent  means,  and  without 
blurring  or  concealing,  the  enormous  detail  occupies  only 
our  necessary  attention.  The  suggestion  of  light,  and  air, 
and  space,  and  of  relative  obscurity,  is  so  subtle  that  we  only 
think  of  the  scene.  It  is  not  a complicated  one.  The  Virgin 
sits  in  the  centre  upon  a throne,  against  which  hangs  a dais, 
black  with  red  designs.  She  and  the  Child,  the  saints,  and 
the  kneeling  donor  of  the  picture  are  in  some  churchlike 
building,  upon  a marble  floor,  lit  by  the  windows,  which  Van 
Eyck  so  wonderfully  painted,  recalling,  perhaps,  his  days  of 
glass  staining.  Beneath  the  feet  of  the  Virgin  is  unrolled  a 
Persian  carpet  minutely  copied  and  realized.  The  Virgin  is 
one  of  the  most  prosaic  that  Van  Eyck  has  painted,  and  the 
Child  is  strangely  devoid  of  beauty,  copied,  apparently,  with- 


THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH  159 

out  change  from  some  baby  underfed.  But  on  the  right 
of  the  Virgin  stands  St.  Donatian,  the  patron  of  the  Cathedral, 
whence  the  picture  came,  astonishing  in  realism  and  in  choice 
of  church  character.  He  is  mitred  in  gold,  and  nothing  could 
be  more  perfect  than  the  painting  of  his  cope.  On  the  left 
of  the  Mother  and  Child,  St.  George,  a portrait  of  a strange 
but  beautiful  type,  clad  in  damascened  armour,  lifts  his 
helmet,  with  a smile,  as  he  presents  the  donor  of  the  picture, 
Canon  van  der  Paele.  He  is  dressed  in  a white  surplice. 
He  holds  in  his  wrinkled  hands  a prayer-book  and  its  cover, 
and  an  eye-glass  whose  lens  is  a marvel  of  imitation.  He  is 
old  and  bald;  a few  gray  hairs  play  upon  the  hard  skull  that 
we  feel  under  the  thin  skin.  The  drawn  eyes  and  face,  wrin- 
kled and  seamed  by  age,  are  a marvel  of  portraiture,  equal 
to  any  that  the  great  Holbein  will  paint  later.  That  is  the 
great  wonder  in  the  wonderful  picture  whose  colour  is  so 
rich,  whose  tone  is  so  full,  that  the  mere  decoration  of  the 
surface  is  almost  a sufficient  pleasure  to  the  eye. 

An  astonishing  resemblance  and  astonishing  difference 
come  in  with  the  painting  of  Memling.  The  art  and  the 
school  are  the  same,  but  the  personal  feeling  appears  with  a 
distinctness,  with  a delicacy,  that  singles  out  the  painter 
from  every  school.  So  impressive  is  this  sentiment  that  one 
almost  regrets  the  legend  that  made  a story,  of  Mending’s 


160  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
having  painted  as  a thank-offering  to  the  Hospital  of  St. 
John  at  Bruges  the  picture  which  I have  chosen,  and  which 
has  long  been  known  as  “The  Mystic  Marriage  of  St. 
Catherine.”  The  story  was  that  one  night  of  January,  1477, 
a young  soldier  begged  for  help,  and  care,  and  food  at  the 
door  of  the  hospital.  He  had  escaped  from  the  defeat  at 
Nancy,  which  saw  the  death  of  Charles  the  Rash  of  Burgundy, 
his  lord,  and  had  made  his  way  through  that  week  of  cruel 
weather  as  far  as  the  city  of  Bruges.  Taken  in,  and  shel- 
tered, and  cured,  he  had  painted  for  the  hospital,  during  the 
following  year,  “The  Shrine  of  St.  Ursula,”  his  painting  of 
“St.  Catherine,”  and  other  paintings  that  are  there.  Like 
so  many  legends,  the  story  seems  to  have  no  foundation.  On 
the  contrary,  we  know  that  he  was  fairly  successful,  that  he 
came  from  far  away,  born  in  Mayence,  but  of  Dutch  ex- 
traction. In  1478,  a master  painter,  he  had  the  freedom  of 
the  city;  but  in  1480  he  was  well  off,  and  had  purchased  a 
large  stone  house  and  two  others;  we  know  that  his  wife’s 
name  was  “Anne,”  that  he  had  three  children,  that  she  died 
in  1487,  and  he  on  August  11,  1494.  This  account  would 
certainly  be  better  for  him  than  the  more  poetic  story. 
But  the  paintings  that  bear  his  name  were  executed  slowly, 
and  needed  means  and  time. 

We  know  only  this  much  of  Memling.  He  dies  half  a 


H 

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CATHEDRAL  OF  GHENT 


HUBERT  AND  JAN  VAN  EYCK 
WORSHIP  OF  THE  LAMB  (THE  TWO  LEFT  PANELS) 

CATHEDRAL  OF  GTT^VT 


HUBERT  AND  JAN  VAN  EYCK 
WORSHIP  OF  THE  LAMB  (THE  TWO  RIGHT  PANELS) 

CATHEDRAL  OF  GHENT 


THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH  161 

century  after  John  Van  Eyck,  and  his  teaching  comes  through 
some  other  direct  influence,  though  the  sequence  is  undoubted. 

John  Van  Eyck,  at  least,  we  know  did  well.  He  was 
painter  and  chamber  servant  to  Philip  of  Burgundy,  ana 
besides  the  work  that  he  painted  he  seems  to  have  been 
employed  on  certain  secret  and  far-away  travels  which  the 
Duke  commanded  him  to  make  “into  certain  places  of  which 
he  desired  no  further  mention  made.”  If  Philip  trusted 
him,  or  trusted  his  accurate  sight  and  opinion  as  to  a future 
wife,  it  may  have  been  thus  that  he  went  to  Spain,  and  then 
to  Portugal,  and  painted  the  Infanta  Isabella,  who  shortly 
afterward  was  engaged  to  Philip.  Once  more,  in  1435,  he  was 
sent  “upon  certain  far-away  voyages  and  strange  marches,” 
and  then  returned  to  his  own  house.  To  his  one  son  Duke 
Philip  stood  godfather.  We  have  the  portrait  of  his  wife, 
painted  a year  before  he  died,  and  inscribed,  “My  husband, 
John,  painted  me  in  the  year  1439;  my  age  was  thirty  years.” 
“ Als  ick  Jean”  is  the  motto  on  this  picture  and  on  many 
others,  and  certainly  the  paintings  are  well  inscribed  as 
being  done  as  well  as  possible. 

I have,  naturally,  chosen  part  of  a masterpiece  by  Memling 
for  our  subject.  It  is  the  centre  of  the  triptych  of  the  high 
altar  at  St.  John’s  Hospital  at  Bruges,  painted  in  1479, 
toward  the  latter  part  of  his  life.  As  I said,  it  is  usually 


162  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
known  as  “The  Mystic  Marriage  of  St.  Catherine/’  an  alle- 
gorical subject,  much  beloved  by  painters,  partly  because, 
perhaps,  often  required  of  them  on  account  of  the  many  mean- 
ings of  its  symbolism.  The  Virgin  is  seated  on  a metal  fald- 
stool with  the  infant  Jesus  upon  her  lap.  On  the  canopy 
above  her  hangs  a cloth  of  honour,  a large-patterned  brocade, 
accentuating  the  perpendiculars  of  the  dark  columns  which 
frame  the  throne,  and  repeating  the  many  columns  of  the 
temple  or  building  where  the  scene  is  laid.  Two  tiny  angels, 
the  size  of  big  birds,  hold  the  crown  far  up  over  the  head 
of  the  Virgin,  and  their  gowns  and  wings  melt  gently  into 
the  space  above.  Two  others,  full-grown,  with  sweet  faces, 
dressed  like  choristers,  kneel  alongside  of  her.  The  one 
plays  upon  a portable  organ,  the  other  holds  open  for  her  the 
Book  of  Wisdom,  of  which  the  Virgin  turns  a leaf,  apparently 
absorbed  in  some  thought  connected  with  her  reading.  The 
right  hand  supports  the  infant  Christ.  He  holds  an  apple 
in  His  left  hand,  in  the  uncertain  way  of  a baby,  and  with  a 
similar  gesture  He  places  a bridal  ring  on  the  finger  of  the  left 
hand  of  St.  Catherine,  who  is  seated  a little  nearer  to  the 
front.  St.  Catherine  wears  a long  skirt,  black,  embroidered 
with  gold;  her  sleeves  are  of  crimson  velvet,  her  bodice  is 
cut  open,  showing  an  exquisite  neck;  a diadem  of  gold  and 
pearls  covers  her  forehead  above  the  veil  — a white  veil, 


THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH  163 

so  delicate  as  to  be  almost  like  a film  of  water.  No  descrip- 
tion could  render  the  expression  of  her  face  — so  young,  so 
feminine,  so  gentle,  and  yet  so  decided,  as  if  the  type  of  what 
we  call  “The  Lady,”  with  whom  everything  becomes  refined, 
whose  gestures  and  movements  are  guided  by  habit  into 
accomplished  rhythm.  And  no  arm  and  hand  could  be  more 
calmly  beautiful  in  gesture,  or  in  make,  than  hers,  as  she  lifts 
her  long,  tapering  finger  for  the  wedding  ring.  A sword 
and  a wheel  lie  beside  her,  the  usual  emblems  of  her  martyr- 
dom, which  tell  us  her  name.  Opposite  her,  farther  away,  is 
seated  St.  Barbara,  absorbed  in  her  book,  which  she  holds 
with  both  hands,  looking  down  with  attentive  eyes,  attentive 
lips,  in  that  special  manner  that  the  painter  must  have 
seen  in  high-bred  maidens  fond  of  books.  Like  St.  Catherine, 
she  is  another  type  of  refined,  courtly  training.  One  would 
say  that  nothing  but  the  habit  of  a life  under  constant  ob- 
servation could  give  to  these  two  personages  such  manners 
as  rule  every  line,  every  modulation  of  their  gestures.  Com- 
pared to  their  elegance,  the  figures  behind  them,  though 
beautiful  and  noble,  fall  almost  into  commonplace.  No  one 
else  has  ever  gone  farther  in  these  suggestions  — not  even 
Memling  himself. 

The  two  St.  Johns  who  stand  behind  the  women  are  John 
the  Baptist  with  his  lamb,  and  John  the  Evangelist,  making 


164  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
the  traditional  sign  of  the  cross  over  the  poisoned  chalice, 
according  to  one  of  his  legends.  Tradition  thinks  the  latter  a 
portrait  of  the  painter;  and  there  is  a certain  something  of 
contemplative  absorption  and  innocence  in  the  face  that 
might  well  justify  this  possible  invention  of  fancy.  Outside 
the  building  is  seen  an  earthly  landscape,  with  many  figures 
that  have  a story  connected  with  the  story  of  St.  John.  The 
picture  was  painted  at  the  suggestion  of  John  of  Floreins 
(who  at  that  time  was  hospital  treasurer),  for  the  Hospital 
Church,  dedicated  to  St.  John  the  Baptist  and  St.  John  the 
Divine,  at  the  cost  of  the  devout  men  and  women  who  took 
care  of  the  hospital,  thus  dividing  their  time  between  labour 
and  prayer,  as  typified  by  St.  Catherine  and  St.  Barbara, 
who  represent,  in  the  symbolism  of  painting,  the  active  and 
the  contemplative  religious  life. 

Apart  from  the  beautiful  methods  of  the  painting,  which 
renders  with  absorbed  interest  the  delicacy  of  flesh  and  its 
complexion,  the  preciousness  of  stuffs,  and  gold,  and  pearls 
and  metals,  and  holds  all  these  many  interests  in  one  balance 
of  due  proportion,  what  is  it  that  has  given  to  Memling 
this  perception  of  the  exquisite  refinement  of  woman?  The 
painter  has  seen  in  these  women  a beauty  even  greater  than 
they  could  have  had,  and  the  charm  of  their  daintiness  is 
nothing  but  an  exterior  covering  for  a beautiful  mind.  Care- 


THE  VIRGIN  AND  CHILD,  ST.  DONATIAN  AND  CANON  VAN  DER  PAELE,  PRO- 
TECTED BY  ST.  GEORGE 

BRUGES 


HANS  MEMLING 

THE  MYSTIC  MARRIAGE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE 

CENTRAL  PANEL  OP  TRIPTYCH,  HOSPITAL  ST.  JOHN,  BRUGES 


THE  PRIMITIVES  — THE  FLEMISH  165 

fulness  and  attention  to  the  rendering  of  these  charms  of 
body  and  mind,  the  exquisite  finish  of  the  painting,  seem 
a form  of  respectful  regard  and  caress.  Who  were  the  models 
that  sat  to  the  painter?  These  are  not  pure  inventions  any 
more  than  his  other  figures.  The  sense  of  portraiture  runs 
throughout  his  work.  But  the  original  model  has  been 
transmuted,  probably,  into  finer  gold.  In  no  other  painting 
of  the  time  — a time  of  many  portraits  — are  there  such 
types.  The  times  were  cruel,  harsh,  brutal,  debased,  violent. 
Every  variety  of  crime  and  assertion  of  its  necessity,  injustice, 
perfidy,  treason,  oaths  carefully  sworn  and  broken,  revolt 
and  massacre,  superstition  and  debauchery,  are  carefully 
recorded  by  the  general  historians  of  the  day.  The  pictures 
bear  testimony  to  the  love  of  gold,  and  show,  and  pomp, 
and  festival,  and  extraordinary  display  that  mark  the  time. 
But  how  out  of  all  that  did  the  painter  build  these  images 
of  sweet  sanctity,  these  flowers  of  simple  perfection? 


XII 


UNKNOWN  PORTRAITS 


We  do  not  often  enough  consider  that  the  art  of  painting 
and  the  art  of  sculpture  have  a result  of  such  eternal  interest 
and  such  extreme  value  as  to  make  them,  more  than  all 
others,  representative  of  the  persistent  life  of  humanity. 
The  great  feats  in  literature,  the  great  poetical  declarations, 
prefer  extraordinary  limit.  The  great  buildings  testify  to 
collected  wealth,  to  the  ambition  of  some  people,  their  pre- 
eminence, sometimes  to  great  artistic  faculties.  History, 
for  instance,  is  in  greater  part  the  record  of  what  a few  men 
have  inflicted  upon  others.  It  is  not  that  art  has  not  recorded 
these  deeds  of  a few,  but  it  has  also  told  us  of  those  who  are 
left  out.  It  has  told  us  of  the  ways  of  feeling  and  living  and 
of  varieties  of  all  date.  Visions  of  peace,  life  of  every-day 
work,  as  carried  on  in  the  world.  The  great  masses,  if  they 
have  not  history  for  them,  have  the  record  of  art.  And 
singularly  enough,  it  may  be  in  the  record  of  the  humblest 
life,  of  which  there  must  be  other  innumerable  examples, 
which  will  interest  the  painter  or  the  sculptor  as  much  as 
the  most  romantic  experiences  or  the  highest  positions.  That 
some  old  woman  has  passed  an  obscure,  voiceless  life,  that  she 

169 


170  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
has  toiled  and  has  suffered  — all  that  Rembrandt  will  tell 
you  with  an  equal,  perhaps  a greater,  interest  than  he  might 
take  in  the  record  of  a brilliant  deed  or  the  representation  of 
some  lord  of  the  world.  Therein  the  portraits,  or  the  paint- 
ings, which,  like  those  of  the  Dutch  painters,  are  all  done 
from  the  portrait  view,  show  us  the  existence  of  that  solid 
stuff  of  work  and  duty,  and  obedience  to  the  ordinary  demands 
of  right,  upon  which  heavy  tissue  are  embroidered  the  deeds 
of  a few,  the  displays  of  ambition  and  of  all  those  sides  of 
what  we  call  human  nature  which,  were  they  not  rare,  would 
end  its  history  itself.  Most  of  this  record  is  modern.  The 
development  of  the  art  of  painting  and  the  existence  of  that 
small  democracy  of  Holland  has,  especially,  given  us  these 
proofs.  But  at  all  times,  somewhere  or  other,  the  unknown 
portrait  strikes  us  beyond,  perhaps,  anything  but  the  most 
extraordinary  successes  of  art — all  the  more  that  these  rep- 
resentations are  more  or  less  accidental  and  dependent  upon 
the  perception  of  the  artist.  But  far  back  the  wooden  por- 
trait of  the  Egyptian  Factor,  the  Sheik  EPBeled,  tells  us 
what  was  the  good-natured  look  of  a kindly  director  of  labour. 
Nearer  to  us,  but  a thousand  years  ago,  the  clay  portrait 
of  a Japanese  peasant  girl  tells  us  of  the  sweetness  of  mind, 
the  simplicity,  the  sincerity,  which  welcomed  the  new  religion 
of  Buddha  in  millions  of  unknown  supporters.  Her  face, 


ANTONELLO  DA  MESSINA 
PORTRAIT  OF  A MAN 

COLLECTION  OF  JOHN  G.  JOHNSON,  PHILADELPHIA 


UNKNOWN  PORTRAITS  171 

the  like  of  which  is  still  unlabelled,  the  traveller  can  see  in 
those  same  fields  of  Nara  or  Horiuji  (Yamato).  We  can  be- 
lieve in  these  representations  of  unknown  people  all  the 
more  that  they  are  not  to  be  suspected  of  official  flattery. 
Farther  down,  nearer  us,  we  have  the  portraits  of  Flemish 
burghers  or  their  wives,  of  Italians  who  played  some  unknown 
part,  until  we  come  to  the  time  when  the  separate  portrait 
is  more  common  and  no  longer  surprises  us.  In  most  of  these 
cases  one  can  see  that  the  artist  has  looked  at  his  model 
without  outside  pressure.  He  has  judged  for  himself  and 
used  that  side  of  his  nature  which  he  cannot  always  employ 
and  which  makes  him  judge  apart  from  beauty  or  splendour 
of  outside  appearance.  It  is,  after  all,  pleasant  to  think  that 
we,  too,  can  look  at  these  images  and  look  at  them  for  them- 
selves and  for  their  own  individual  value  or  interest  as  ex- 
ponents of  human  life,  without  the  prejudice  or  the  anxiety 
to  see  clearly  which  may  disturb  us  in  looking  at  the  records 
of  well-known  characters  who  have  played  a part,  and  whom 
we  may  criticize  as  we  criticize  actors,  asking  that  their  por- 
traits should  fill  the  part  which  history  has  given  them.  In 
this  perfectly  free  attitude  of  mind  let  us  look  at  some  few 
portraits  of  unknown  persons,  or  some  even  by  undetermined 
masters.  We  do  not  sufficiently  realize  that  this  must  be 
so;  that  the  parts  played  by  these  various  characters  must 


172  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
be  filled  by  the  moderate  or  insufficient  actors  if  there  be  no 
great  ones  to  take  the  place.  The  apparent  leaders  may  be 
simply  carried  upon  the  wave  of  great  movements,  or  be  the 
necessary  officials,  or  be  put  up  in  place  of  others  who  moved 
behind  them,  and  this  the  portrait  tells  us  almost  uninten- 
tionally. This  is  a commonplace  statement,  but  it  is  worth 
keeping  before  us. 

To  have  a place  in  the  world  and  to  keep  it  in  some  in- 
genious way,  whether  on  the  surface  or  behind  it,  may  well 
be  the  meaning  of  the  mind  within  the  face  of  the  portrait 
by  Antonello  da  Messina.  The  clever  painter,  whose  legend 
makes  him  ingeniously  discover  the  secrets  of  the  Flemish 
painters,  so  as  to  practise  them  in  Italy,  must  have  enjoyed 
the  cleverness  of  the  face  before  us.  We  remember  the  por- 
trait by  him  of  another  unknown,  the  so-called  Condottiere, 
in  the  Louvre,  and  its  relentless  persistence  of  intention. 
Here  the  personage,  certainly  of  a less  warlike  profession, 
will  follow  his  end  in  a more  subtle  but  certainly  quite  as 
determined  a manner.  The  intelligent  watchfulness,  the 
readiness  for  some  possible  change,  a certain  humour  of  ap- 
preciation, and  readiness  also  to  smile  at  what  might  require 
it,  is  all  marked  there.  One  can  almost  believe  that  the  lips 
will  move  to  appreciate  something  worth  noting,  or  abstain 
from  what  might  not  be  the  proper  thing.  Will  he  be  a 


ANTONELLO  DA  MESSINA 
THE  CONDOTTIERE 


THE  LOUVRE 


THOMAS  DE  KEYSER 
PORTRAIT  OF  A MAN 

THE  HAGUE  MUSEUM 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRUCKMAN 


UNKNOWN  PORTRAITS  173 

Cardinal  some  day,  or  a Chancellor,  or  is  he  already  in  some 
position  of  security?  The  dress  is  already  rich  and  that  of 
a personage.  So  that  it  is  not  quite  an  unpleasant  suggestion 
that  we  receive  from  the  clever  face.  We  feel  that  such 
a clear  eye,  looking  so  steadily,  has  at  least  a clear  vision 
of  what  is.  It  might  almost  be  that  of  the  painter  himself 
gauging  the  sitter  before  him. 

Another  eye,  another  look,  is  that  of  the  gentleman  secure 
in  his  professional  standing,  who  was  painted  almost  two 
centuries  later  in  Holland  by  Thomas  de  Keyser.  The  glory 
of  the  Dutch  School  is  this  possibility  of  some  of  the  lesser 
men  rivalling  in  the  rendering  of  nature  the  very  greatest 
of  all  artists,  through  love  of  nature,  sincerity  of  purpose,  and 
last,  not  least,  the  holding  to  a technique  and  practice  care- 
fully observed.  If,  as  I take  it,  this  gentleman  be  a physician, 
he  is  worthy  of  being  remembered  alongside  of  the  Jew  doc- 
tors whom  Rembrandt  has  represented:  faces,  features,  ex- 
pressions and  habits  of  bodies  so  eminently  professional,  so 
interested  in  their  work.  Who  can  ever  forget  the  face  and 
hand  of  Ephraim  Bonus  as  he  halts  on  the  stairway,  hesitat- 
ing as  to  the  accuracy  of  his  diagnosis  and  the  remedy  he 
may  have  chosen?  Here  our  man  looks  with  an  eye  of 
observation  — with  the  intention  of  some  ascertaining. 
The  rest  of  the  face  has  passed  entirely  into  that  one  inten- 


174  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
tion.  The  mouth  is  parted  as  in  moments  of  keen  interest, 
while  the  deepened  line  of  the  cheek  and  the  slight  con- 
traction of  the  nostril  follow  the  direction  of  the  eye.  Even 
if  those  eyes  were  covered,  one  could  see  the  intention  of  dis- 
covery and  of  mental  observation.  The  coat-of-arms  might 
tell  us  who  the  gentleman  was.  Thomas  de  Keyser  painted 
this  in  1636,  when  he  was  sixty-six  years  old. 

These  were  two  men  of  action,  without  doubt.  Brilliancy 
and  capacity  of  various  kinds  and  the  mark  of  the  man  of  the 
world  belong  to  the  Italian;  and  capacity  and  serious  self- 
respect  justified  mark  the  Dutchman’s  face.  But  they  are 
in  the  world  and  either  upholding  it  by  work  or  making  use 
of  the  work  of  others. 

“The  Young  Man  in  Black,”  whose  portrait  hangs  in  the 
Louvre,  an  unknown  man  painted  by  an  unknown  painter, 
makes  all  the  contrast  of  a withdrawal  from  action  into 
thought  — certainly  not  pleasant.  Sorrow  or  envy  or  dis- 
appointment fills  the  masque  of  the  Italian  youth  with  the 
blurred  eyes  and  the  contemptuous  lips.  The  masterpiece 
has  long  ago  told  this  story  of  discontent  to  all  admirers. 
Everything  in  the  picture  unites  for  the  impression,  even  to 
the  placing  of  the  figure  in  its  frame  — the  narrowness  of 
the  shoulders,  the  fulness  of  hair,  the  leaning  in  conventional 
but  absent-minded  manner,  arm  upon  arm.  The  very  out- 


UNKNOWN  PORTRAITS  175 

lines  of  solitary  trees  against  the  distant  sky  are  details  of 
this  story.  It  is  in  that  way  the  one  absolutely  sad  portrait. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  face  or  attitude  to  tell  us  of  the  possi- 
ble revulsion,  of  a willingness  to  struggle  against,  ill-fortune. 
Even  if  the  mood  of  the  sitter  was  momentary,  the  painter 
has  made  it  eternal. 

At  a moment  of  fatigue  and  despondency  in  the  great  stress 
of  an  impossible  position  Raphael  painted  the  great  Pope 
Julius,  and  we  see  for  a moment  the  expression  of  a beaten 
hero.  But  the  will  is  not  broken,  nor  the  courage  for  new 
attempts,  and  even  the  old  age  is  a pledge  for  the  hurry  to 
resume  again  the  fight  which  cannot  be  put  off.  At  a certain 
moment  the  painting  of  “The  Young  Man  in  Black”  was 
given  to  the  painter  Francia,  the  Bolognese.  That  attri- 
bution has,  I think,  been  long  withdrawn.  One  might  recall 
the  mistaken  legend  which  made  Francia  die  of  grief  at  the 
superiority  of  the  young  Raphael  — a foolish  story  which 
comes  up,  not  unnaturally,  with  this  record  of  despondent 
withdrawal  within  one’s  self. 

Compared  to  the  quiet,  to  the  desolate,  patience  of  “The 
Young  Man  in  Black,”  it  is  by  a more  dramatic  action  that 
the  portrait  of  another  “ Unknown,”  by  Lorenzo  Lotto,  gives 
its  meaning  of  intimate  sorrow.  Lotto  has  himself,  through- 
out his  work,  the  mark  of  the  sympathizer  with  forms  of 


176  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
sadness  half  concealed,  so  that  this  portrait  is  rightly  made 
by  him.  Like  that  of  “The  Young  Man  in  Black”  — like 
most  great  portraits  — its  shape  and  the  proportions  of  its 
arrangement  are  the  foundation  of  impression.  The  half- 
seen  embrasure  of  the  window,  high  up,  from  which  drops  a 
lonely  light,  the  square  of  the  window  or  great  opening  through 
which  we  see  far  off  a spread  of  the  world,  its  cities  and  its 
actions,  close  in  all  the  more  the  mental  tragedy  of  the  hero 
of  the  portrait. 

He  is  clad  in  rich  garments,  whose  make  and  every  detail 
tell  of  position  and  probable  wealth.  He  is  large  and  strong, 
and  his  hands  tell  of  refinement  of  habit.  The  face,  unmarked 
by  age,  is  that  of  a man  in  full  health  and  the  prime  of  life; 
across  it  the  painter  has  given  the  transitory  movement  of 
great  distress.  The  eyes  look  without  seeing,  and  a slight 
frown  indicates  the  thought.  Nothing  else  in  the  face  moves, 
unless  it  be  perhaps  a slight  droop,  hardly  distinguishable, 
of  the  lower  lip.  But  there  is  no  mistaking  the  sadness  meant 
to  be  indulged  in. 

This  is  the  portrait  of  the  man  who  has  come  back  from 
things.  They  are  empty,  they  have  nothing  in  them  but  death. 
This  he  thinks  as  he  presses  the  scattered  flowers  on  the  table, 
within  which  lies  the  small  ivory  skull  that  symbolizes  the 
meaning  of  the  picture.  One  hardly  notices  the  detail,  but 


REMBRANDT  VAN  RIJN 
EPHRAIM  BONUS 

FROM  THE  ETCHING  BY  THE  MASTER 


XVI  CENTURY  FLORENTINE  SCHOOL 
“THE  YOUNG  MAN  IN  BLACK” 


THE  LOUVRE 


UNKNOWN  PORTRAITS  177 

the  motion  of  the  hand,  the  jewelled  fingers,  half  pushing 
aside  the  leaves  and  flowers  and  revealing  a small  skull,  catch 
our  attention  and  tell  again  the  story.  The  other  hand,  with 
the  rings  and  lace,  presses  against  the  hip  — as  in  moments 
of  grief  and  reflection  — the  hand  moves  unconsciously. 
All  else,  as  I said  before,  is  wealth  and  a certain  magnificence. 
So  that  this  is  but  transient.  The  subject  of  our  portrait 
may  return  in  a moment  to  his  position  and  the  world,  to 
what  he  has  to  do  there,  but  for  this  single  moment  he  realizes 
the  real  value  of  things.  The  portrait  is  a complete  expression 
of  sadness,  as  it  was  meant  to  be.  Its  hero  has  wished  to 
record  for  himself,  perhaps  for  others  whom  he  knew,  this 
attitude  of  mind.  To  whom  could  it  have  gone?  What 
friend,  what  lover,  what  descendant  shall  it  have  been  ad- 
dressed to,  or  was  it  merely  the  record  of  the  strong  individ- 
uality of  which  no  one  then  was  ashamed,  and  which  rarely 
again,  unless  in  Spain,  where  pride  has  no  vanity,  is  repre- 
sented by  the  portrait?  It  may  have  been  some  manner  of 
saying  to  others,  who  misjudged:  “This  is  what  I really 

felt,  and  I am  no  longer  with  you.” 

But  the  work  of  art  is  meant  to  tell  you  some  form  of 
story,  whether  intentional  or  not,  and  we  could  dream  for 
hours  over  the  past  of  the  subject  of  the  portrait  and  of  his 
intentions  and  wishes. 


178  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
As  we  return  in  mind  to  the  portrait  of  “The  Young  Man 
in  Black”  we  recognize  no  drama  as  in  the  portrait  of  Lotto. 
In  the  painting  of  the  Louvre  there  is  no  drama,  no  sense 
of  momentary  outward  action.  The  drama  is  all  within  the 
sustained  character  of  the  hero  of  the  portrait.  His  expres- 
sion is  not  that  of  a momentary  reflection  or  solemn  thought 
such  as  we  all  know.  It  is  the  picture  of  a permanent  soak- 
ing in  of  melancholy  and  unhappiness,  which  will  last  with 
the  character  of  the  man  depicted.  One  is  reminded  of  the 
verses  of  de  Musset,  in  which  his  double,  “The  Young  Man 
in  Black,”  appears  to  him  whenever  he  attempts  to  escape 
from  his  brooding  over  an  unhappy  past  which  is  part  of 
his  present. 


XIII 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  — PART  ONE 


It  has  been  said  with  justice,  certainly  with  much  meaning, 
that  the  great  painter  Van  Dyck  was  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful creations  of  Rubens.  Van  Dyck  was  his  favourite 
pupil,  which  meant  also  in  most  cases  his  assistant.  Toby 
Matthews  writing  to  Sir  Dudley  Castleton  calls  him  Rubens’s 
“Famous  Allievo,”  meaning,  of  course,  his  pupil  but  also 
his  assistant.  However  much  he  was  under  the  influence 
of  Rubens,  however  much  he  was  guided  by  the  example 
of  his  stupendous  patron,  his  sensitive  and  delicate  nature 
modified  the  robust  Flemish  sense  of  life  and  nature  through 
the  influences  of  Italy.  He  might  be  described  as  a son 
of  Rubens,  whose  acquaintance  with  Italy  both  in  art  and 
manners  gave  him  the  special  mark  of  foreign  training  which 
comes  upon  travelled  youth.  Van  Dyck  was  helped  and 
guided  in  his  outside  career  by  the  great  Flemish  master,  and 
out  of  his  own  genius,  his  own  personal  charm,  his  beautiful 
manner,  his  good  looks,  he  made  a career  which  reflects  his 
master’s  in  less  important  manner,  but  in  a shape  of  attrac- 
tive beauty.  He  painted  subjects  of  all  kinds  as  his  master 

did:  religious  pictures  for  churches,  or  for  individual  devo- 

181 


182  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
tion,  stories  out  of  the  Bible  or  classical  history,  classical 
allegories  and  mythologies.  Above  all,  just  what  his  master 
did  least,  he  painted  most  — portraits  of  such  a kind  that 
he  remains  as  the  typical  portrait  painter  to  the  modern 
mind;  so  much  so  that  the  varied  excellencies  and  the  charm 
of  his  other  painting  are  perhaps  a great  deal  overshadowed. 
He  had  the  advantage  of  a wonderful  training  which  devel- 
oped an  extraordinary  facility  at  a most  early  date.  At 
twenty-one  years  of  age  he  had  acquired  the  knowledge  of 
practice  which  made  him  already  a master,  and  the  influence 
of  this  training  and  the  manner  of  it  were  essentially  in  the 
way  of  a sumptuous  and  elegant  rendering  of  nature,  a man- 
ner of  using  his  subject  for  a more  beautiful  adornment,  an 
insisting  on  whatever  might  be  elegance  and  richness,  like- 
wise in  form  and  line  and  colour.  It  is  a perception  of  how 
nature  can  be  used  for  the  attainment  oi 'a' beautiful  melody 
harmonized  upon  some  wonderful  instrument'.  Like  his  mas- 
ter, he  went  to  England  to  paint  the  portraits  of  the  aristoc- 
racy. It  was  through  the  Earl  of  Arundel,  the  great  lover 
and  patron  of  art  of  his  day,  that  Van  Dyck  came  to  England. 
His  first  arrival  makes  little  mark.  But  the  same  Matthews 
says  in  1620  that  “the  King  had  given  him  a pension  of 
one  hundred  pounds  per  annum.”  This  amount  he  received 
after  three  or  four  months’  residence,  and  at  that  time  as 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  183 

Anthony  Van  Dyck,  gentleman,  his  majesty’s  servant,  he 
obtained  permission  to  travel  for  eight  months.  This  jour- 
ney took  him  to  Italy  and  seems  to  have  been  far  extended. 
He  was  doing  as  his  master  had  done  before  him,  he  was 
going  to  the  land  of  artistic  culture.  So  we  know  that  he 
left  Antwerp,  October  3,  1621,  mounted  on  the  best  horse 
in  Rubens’s  stables,  a parting  gift  from  his  master.  There 
was  once  a story,  such  as  might  well  belong  to  this  romantic 
youth:  that  he  had  delayed  in  the  village  of  Saventhem  for 
love  of  a pretty  girl,  and  that  there  he  painted  one  of  his 
first  paintings,  the  picture  of  St.  Martin  dividing  his  coat  for 
a beggar.  Similar  traditions  belong  to  his  after  life,  as  well 
as  his  own  account  of  how  later  he  could  say  to  his  royal 
patron,  Charles,  “Open  table  to  one’s  friends  and  open 
pockets  for  one’s  mistresses  soon  show  the  bottom  of  ex- 
chequer.” Van  Dyck’s  privileged  position  at  the  court  helped 
him  to  much  work  and  many  commissions,  but  entailed  costly 
acquaintances  and  luxurious  habits.  All  this  told  on  his 
health  as  well  as  upon  his  purse.  There  are  stories  of  his 
having  resorted  to  alchemy  and  the  black  arts  to  help  his 
fortunes,  under  the  influence  of  his  friend  Sir  Kenelm  Digby. 
Then  there  are  various  stories  of  fair  ladies,  until  both  the 
King’s  and  Queen’s  interest  in  his  welfare  attempted  to  settle 
him  by  finding  him  a bride  in  Mary  Ruthven,  connected 


184  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
with  some  of  the  noblest  families  in  Scotland.  It  is  but 
natural,  then,  that  we  should  have  such  intimate  representa- 
tions of  the  gentlemen  of  England  in  Van  Dyck’s  portraits. 
He  would  have  shared  their  feelings,  their  ways  of  looking 
at  current  events.  And  our  impressions  of  the  history  of 
that  time  are  recorded  in  these  paintings.  His  records  give 
us  the  romantic  impression  that  comes  from  that  moment 
of  England’s  anxieties,  and  nothing  more  justifies  the  poetry 
of  the  Cavalier.  The  noblemen  and  gentlemen  of  the  por- 
traits are  far  removed  from  common  needs,  struggles,  and 
associations.  The  fact  that  they  are  often  armed  and  booted 
and  spurred,  and  even  ride  on  splendid  chargers,  seems  only  to 
make  them  belong  more  evidently  to  romance.  Everything 
about  their  portraits,  the  slight  disdain  of  their  faces,  their  in- 
difference of  eye,  the  well-kept  hands  — a little  too  much  of  one 
make  — the  daintiness  of  their  linen,  their  silks,  their  velvets, 
all  mean  that  they  are  far  from  the  profane  and  vulgar,  and 
keep  at  sword’s  length.  Rarely  does  any  indication  appear  of 
the  tragic  fate  which  awaits  some  of  them,  of  the  story  of  dis- 
aster, or  at  least  of  danger  and  difficulty,  which  is  to  surround 
them.  Once  in  the  portrait  of  Strafford,  and  in  the  wonderful 
picture  of  Charles  Stuart,  King  of  England,  now  in  the  Louvre, 
the  portrait  can  be  supposed  to  be  near  enough  to  show  what 
might  happen  to  a personage  so  extremely  singled  out. 


ANTON  VAN  DYCK 
CHARLES  I OF  ENGLAND 

THE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


ANTON  VAN  DYCK 

THE  INFANTA  ISABEL  CLARA  EUGENIA,  REGENT  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS 


COLLECTION  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  DEVONSHIRE 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  HANFSTAENGL 


ANTON  VAN  DYCK 

BEATRICE  DE  CUZANCE,  PRINCESSE  DE  CANTECROIX  (FRAGMENT) 


WINDSOR  CASTLE 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  185 

The  portrait  of  Charles  is,  as  we  know,  one  of  the  most 
famous.  Its  entire  composition  has  the  appearance  of  a 
story  — of  some  poetic  description  of  part  of  an  important 
event.  The  King  is  in  riding  costume,  in  a white  satin  jacket, 
red  hose,  and  light  yellow  leather  jack  boots  — with  a wide- 
brimmed  black  hat,  slightly  tilted,  under  which  drops  the 
long  cavalier  hair.  One  lock  touches  his  wide  collar,  and  a 
pearl  hangs  from  the  ear  beneath  it.  The  King’s  gray  horse 
drops  its  head,  champing  the  bit,  and  the  groom  holds  it 
back.  Another  attendant  holds  in  his  hands  the  King’s 
silk  riding  cloak.  The  loneliness  that  belongs  to  kings 
attends  Charles,  who  stands  a little  away  from  horse  and 
attendants  and  the  trees  that  edge  the  woods  he  has  left. 
Every  trifle  in  his  equipment  and  in  his  gestures  makes  him 
out  the  type  of  the  gentleman  aristocrat  by  birth,  by  feeling, 
by  training,  by  prejudice,  and  by  unconscious  assertion. 
His  right  hand  presses  his  tall  cane  with  gentle  authority, 
the  gloved  left  hand,  bent  upon  the  hip,  holds  the  other  glove 
with  open  fingers,  elegantly  spread.  The  feet  and  legs,  cased 
in  the  elegant  fashion  of  the  day,  press  firmly  but  lightly  with 
a gentle  stride.  The  King  is  all  that  there  is  there — all  else 
is  but  a setting,  and  all  and  anything,  every  line,  every  means 
of  dark  and  light  carry  to  one  point,  the  eye  of  the  royal  face, 
looking  at  us,  part  of  the  general  spectacle,  with  eyebrow 


186  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
slightly  raised,  with  lid  slightly  drooped,  with  a clear  but  not 
insistent  vision  — perhaps  the  expression  of  conscious  superi- 
ority. In  marvellous  elegance,  the  divine  right  of  kings  is 
here  shown.  Anything  further  from  the  Puritan  and  the 
strenuous  assertion  of  anything  one  cannot  imagine.  That 
solitariness  that  belongs  to  certain  refinements  is  here  pic- 
tured as  never  elsewhere.  And  the  melancholy  of  this 
perception  by  the  painter  reminds  us  of  the  fate  of  his  hero. 
History  is  written  there  — the  things  that  were  to  be. 

This  manner  of  courtesy,  of  aristocratic  elegance,  is  carried 
out  even  in  the  big  landscapes  of  the  portraits,  in  whatever 
fills  in  the  architecture  of  the  pictures,  meant  to  hang  on 
splendid  walls  as  fresh  testimonies  to  pride  of  place  and 
mirroring  of  fashion.  The  picture  of  well-born  fashion  has 
never  since  been  so  beautifully  expressed.  There  is  still 
with  Van  Dyck’s  portraits  some  reflection  of  a more  heroic 
age,  and  the  mark  of  ancestry,  both  in  the  subjects  and  the 
painter’s  reminiscence  of  greater  art,  separates  these  por- 
traits from  other  later  masterpieces,  equally  fashionable, 
and  sometimes  almost  as  beautiful,  where  the  subjects  of 
the  portraits  do  not  affirm  themselves  as  of  undoubted  blue 
blood  and  as  living  in  a manner  of  superiority  absolutely 
unchallenged.  To  obtain  such  results  some  of  the  meaning 
in  each  face  has  to  be  felt  out:  some  of  the  experience  of  life 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  187 

which  is  separate  for  each  one  of  us,  some  of  that  hardness 
or  softness  or  special  character  which  we  have  by  ourselves 
when  we  are  no  longer  dressed  for  the  public.  In  that, 
the  portraits  of  Van  Dyck  begin  a new  era  in  painting.  They 
are  more  the  representation  of  what  a person  of  distinction 
would  like  to  appear  to  be  than  what  he  really  is  when  seen 
more  than  once  on  some  occasion  of  show  or  festivity.  A little 
of  this  polite  view  of  reality  can  be  seen  in  the  Titians  before 
Van  Dyck.  But  after  Van  Dyck  it  marks  throughout  the 
whole  modern  history  a special  way  of  looking  at  por- 
traiture; a society  manner,  putting  aside  the  individual  and 
the  main  question.  In  England  it  becomes  the  special  mark. 
In  Spain  the  older  idea  persists,  and  even  into  the  nineteenth 
century  the  unflattering  representation  of  royalty  or  impor- 
tance continues  unbroken.  It  is  as  if  Spanish  pride  of  ances- 
try and  of  character  were  too  great  to  allow  for  the  smaller 
weakness  of  vanity. 

Van  Dyck  appreciated  to  an  extraordinary  extent  such 
national  or  personal  characteristics.  His  portrait  will  be 
more  or  less  superficial  according  to  these  circumstances. 
There  is  no  easy  politeness  in  the  way  he  treats  his  direct 
sovereign,  Isabella  Clara  Eugenia,  the  Archduchess/Regent 
of  the  Netherlands  and  daughter  of  the  terrible  Philip  II. 
Thereby,  perhaps,  we  feel  the  different  air  of  court  and  camp. 


188  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
and  the  manner  of  feeling  of  different  historical  moments. 
The  Earl  of  Arundel,  for  instance,  belongs  to  an  older  genera- 
tion, and  his  dignity  contrasts  with  the  trust  in  the  future 
and  in  all  that  will  be  pleasant  for  the  younger  people  of  a 
little  later:  as  with  Lord  Philip  Wharton,  just  married, 
painted  as  a shepherd  of  Arcady  in  the  most  beautiful  silks. 
When  he  paints  the  Earl  of  Strafford  fate  seems  to  be  indi- 
cated in  the  solitary  abstraction  of  the  Earl,  pictured,  perhaps 
unawares,  in  the  sensitive  mirror  of  Van  Dyck’s  mind.  It 
is,  as  we  see,  no  pleasant  face:  a manner  of  sullen  pride 
marks  it.  The  man  thinks,  however,  following  some  obsti- 
nate course.  And  in  some  way,  while  pondering,  perhaps, 
some  dictation  to  his  secretary,  he  seems  left  alone  — deserted. 
The  secretary,  writing  alongside,  belongs  to  another  kind. 
His  is  not  an  unfrequent  face  — one  sees  it  in  clever  hangers- 
on.  We  know  all  the  more  that  the  look  which  attends  so 
many  of  the  portraits  of  Sir  Anthony  answers  to  what  we 
might  expect,  by  what  has  happened  to  his  sitters  in  their 
after  lives.  It  is  not  merely,  then,  we  ourselves  who  have 
made  this  interest  in  these  heroes  of  misfortune,  but  their 
fate  has  been  written  out  on  their  faces,  to  be  registered  un- 
consciously by  the  artist.  In  that  way  a splendour  and  im- 
portance which  we  might  call  Shakespearian  fills  the  great 
portrait  — great  among  all  portraits  — of  Charles  Stuart  of 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  189 

England,  who  steps  forward  slowly  and  disdainfully  into  the 
open  from  the  wood  where  he  has  been  hunting,  and  who 
seems  to  take  upon  himself  a responsibility  of  divine  right. 

In  a far  different  way  Beatrice  of  Cuzance  steps  up  to 
good  fortune  and  great  marriage  with  a slight  doubt  still 
lingering  in  the  face,  within  pleasure  of  attainment.  And  all 
this  is  in  the  artist’s  character;  for  we  know  him  very  fairly. 
He  had  his  serious  and  even  religious  side;  his  brothers  and 
sisters  were  in  the  church.  He  was  sometimes  roughly 
spoken  of  as  “the  gentleman  painter”  by  the  other  artists 
whose  manner  of  life  was  not  what  he  thought  best-seeming, 
and  he  was  also  fond  of  pleasure  — - and  of  hard  work  — 
and  was  ambitious,  and  led  to  many  things.  His  portrait 
of  a later  date,  that  with  the  great  sunflower,  shows  all  this, 
perhaps,  whether  the  sunflower  be  the  emblem  of  constancy 
or  the  sign  of  something  quite  the  reverse,  turning  toward 
the  shine  and  toward  the  warmth  of  the  sun. 

The  mass  of  the  Van  Dyck  portraiture  is  very  great.  In 
museums  and  private  ownership  it  stretches  along  lengthy 
surfaces.  Perhaps  it  is  less  charming  when  the  charm  seems 
so  easily  repeated.  Perhaps  the  eye  recognizes  that  many 
of  these  successes  are  the  work  of  many  assistants  who 
painted  at  the  very  least  the  dresses  of  the  sitters,  loaned, 
as  we  know,  for  the  occasion.  Jabach  tells  us  how  Van  Dyck 


190  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
made  fixed  appointments  for  his  sittings  and  never  devoted 
more  than  an  hour  to  any  particular  portrait.  At  the  given 
moment  the  sitter  was  courteously  dismissed,  and  the  next 
one  introduced,  while  his  servant  changed  his  canvas  and 
his  brushes.  After  sketching  in  his  portrait  Van  Dyck  posed 
his  sitter  as  he  desired  and  then  drew  on  gray  paper  in  chalk 
for  a quarter  of  an  hour  studies  of  the  figure  and  draperies. 
These  were  handed  to  his  assistants,  who  completed  the  figure 
on  the  canvas,  which  the  painter  then  went  over  himself, 
correcting  or  finishing  with  final  touches.  As  his  methods 
involved  preparation  of  the  painting  by  skilful  “ underpaint- 
ing,” this  method  is  natural.  Nor  could  anything  else  be 
— we  must  remember  that  out  of  his  twenty-five  years  of 
painting,  seven  only  were  passed  in  England,  and  this  gallery 
of  English  people  was  carried  out  in  that  short  time.  Of 
course,  also,  after  his  death,  his  assistants  or  pupils  produced 
much  wTork  that  went  by  his  name,  in  the  usual  commercial 
way  of  certain  national  stages  of  culture.  It  is  in  that 
way  also  that  the  Van  Dyck  hand  is  noted.  The  elegance 
of  the  hands  is  common  property  to  all  sitters;  in  so  far  ever 
so  different  from  the  individuality,  the  separate  meaning  that 
belongs  to  the  portraits  of  the  Dutchmen  that  we  have  seen. 
They  have  no  fashionable  arbitrage  for  what  should  be  the 
proper  look.  All  this  great  number  of  paintings  were  produced 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  191 

by  the  great  painter  and  his  assistants  by  the  time  he  was 
forty  years  old.  Then  Sir  Anthony  Van  Dyck,  for  he  had 
been  knighted,  like  the  great  Sir  Peter  Paul  Rubens,  was  asked 
to  undertake  some  great  official  work  for  his  native  land. 
At  some  near  date  he  writes  from  Paris  the  expression  of  his 
belief  that  now  at  length  he  is  going  to  show  what  he  really 
can  do,  for  all  the  past  is  but  a beginning.  Somewhat  ill 
and  discouraged  at  not  getting  his  way,  he  returns  to  London 
and  dies  at  the  age  of  forty-two.  Of  course  we  are  unaware 
as  to  what  might  have  been  accomplished  by  such  a facile 
mind  and  hand,  what  the  now  absolutely  successful  painter, 
quieted  and  steadied  and  married  into  the  aristocracy,  might 
have  done.  His  portrait  with  the  sunflower  has  the  mark 
of  the  still  ambitious  artist. 

But  the  meaning  of  his  work  remained  in  England;  and 
when  in  the  next  century  Sir  Joshua  and  Gainsborough 
paint  the  Lords  and  Ladies  of  the  land,  we  shall  have 
again  the  triumph  of  “society”  in  painting,  and  in  another 
way  more  suited  to  modern  circumstances : — other  long 
ranges  of  beautiful  surfaces  — which  are  portraits  — shall 
decorate  the  English  homes. 

As  we  have  seen,  Sir  Anthony’s  extreme  sensitiveness  varied 
the  look  of  his  sitters  and  somewhat  the  appearance  of  their 
pictures  according  to  the  places  where  he  found  them.  It 


192  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
would  be  but  natural,  as  he  was  yet  a young  man,  absorbing 
what  he  had  around  him  in  the  way  of  art,  so  that  his  Italian 
pictures  have  something  more  Italian,  and  the  Flemish  some- 
thing more  near  to  Rubens,  his  master;  and  he  may  have 
found  in  each  of  these  different  places  some  vein  of  artistic 
influence.  But  the  mass  of  his  English  portraits  have  left 
this  tradition  of  fashionable  style  to  England. 


XIV 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  — PART  TWO 


Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s  paintings  are  not  so  sure  in  their 
methods  as  Van  Dyck’s;  many  of  them  must  have  lost  a large 
portion  of  their  first  charm,  but  they  keep  to  the  main  idea 
of  making  the  portrait  a beautiful  thing  to  look  at,  in  which 
all  the  parts  of  speech  that  belong  to  the  art  of  painting  shall 
have  their  due  share  in  the  making  of  a work  of  art,  in  a some- 
thing which  did  not  exactly  so  exist  in  nature,  but  for  which 
nature  has  been  used.  Therein  lies  the  justification  of  what 
appears  to  us  occasionally  eminently  artificial,  especially 
if  we  have  just  compared  it  to  the  sincerity  of  a Holbein, 
not  to  speak  of  the  realism  of  Velasquez,  or  the  wealth  of 
meaning  of  Rembrandt. 

Coming  upon  one  of  the  portraits  of  the  great  Dutchman 
is  quite  as  much  of  a surprise  as  if  a real  person  were  there, 
only  one  passes  more  rapidly  into  the  meaning  of  his  char- 
acter and  into  the  statement  of  what  has  happened  to  him 
in  previous  life.  On  reflection,  it  is  evident  that  a person  in 
what  is  called  society,  that  is  to  say,  the  outside  appearance 
of  life,  would  hesitate  at  being  stated  in  full  with  the  summing 
up  of  everything  in  this  one  face  on  a painted  canvas.  It 

195 


196  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
would  be  like  having  one’s  hand  read  with  the  explanation 
of  what  had  really  happened.  So  that  it  is  not  surprising 
that  Rembrandt’s  portraits  do  not  represent  the  great  people 
of  his  time:  a time  which  was  already  beginning  to  doubt 
and  to  question.  Before  that  there  were  moments  in  each 
country  when  a painter  represented,  without  fear  and  without 
annoyance  to  his  sitter,  merely  his  face  as  he  was. 

The  most  beautiful  painting  that  the  world  can  give  in 
the  way  of  portraits  could  not  give  more  of  a shock  than 
comes  to  the  visitor  in  Venice  who  comes  upon  the  portrait 
painted  by  that  moderate  artist,  Gentile  Bellini,  the  brother 
of  the  great  John.  It  is  the  profile  of  Mahomet  II,  the  con- 
queror of  Constantinople,  and  has  the  story,  in  its  simple 
lines  of  precision,  of  the  ruthless  exterminator  and  intellect- 
ual contemner  of  mankind.  When  passing  from  the  more 
modern  work  to  these  older  phases,  the  sensation  of  sincerity, 
the  belief  that  we  are  really  touching  history,  is  upon  us. 
The  originals  of  these  portraits  have  no  doubts  about  their 
position,  and  their  security  or  their  pride  seems  to  save  them 
from  vanity. 

Later,  more  and  more,  the  portraits  show  another  type  of 
society,  much  of  it  newly  made.  They  give  us  types  of  a 
less  aristocratic  setting  apart,  of  a manner  of  life  with  less 
rigid  barriers  between  classes,  which  is  accentuated  all  the 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  197 

more  by  the  fact  that  all  is  holiday  in  the  pictures.  Except 
for  a very  few  studies,  there  are  hardly  any  workers  among 
all  these  people,  many  of  whom  did  a great  deal  in  the  world. 
Even  the  gallant  Lord  Hatfield,  who  holds  the  keys  to  Gibral- 
tar, with  the  background  of  battle  smoke,  looks  somewhat 
unreal  if  we  think  of  him  as  a practical  hero.  The  great  ladies 
and  most  of  the  lesser  ones  have  no  home  troubles,  have  no 
visible  experience  of  life.  And  they  all  connect  in  this  happy 
land  of  appearances,  of  absence  from  reflection  — from  the 
sweet  little  girls  to  Kitty  Fisher  or  Nellie  O’Brien,  or  the 
Archbishops  of  York  and  Canterbury.  Nothing  in  the 
painting  tells  us  whether  the  artist  saw  any  difference  in  their 
modes  of  life  except  in  so  far  as  certain  society  rules  might 
determine  some  marks  of  distinction. 

And  even  the  affectations  of  the  moment  are  motives  for 
his  pictures:  whether  he  painted  mock  tragedy,  gentle  mis- 
applications of  Dante’s  ferocious  stories,  amiable  versions  of 
religious  subjects,  or  pagan  stories  without  heathen  and  im- 
proper tendencies : all  are,  as  it  were,  in  the  manner  of  private 
theatricals.  And  yet  all  this  is  beautiful,  because  he  was 
Sir  Joshua,  in  the  first  place;  and  then,  his  was  a cultivated 
mind,  continually  referring  to  all  that  was  greatest  and  best 
within  that  knowledge  of  art  that  he  had  managed  to  acquire 
by  travel,  by  study,  and  by  a singular  habit  of  reflection. 


198  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
So  that  anywhere,  in  the  least  probable  places,  we  shall 
find  that  he  has  had  reminiscences  of  other  painters  working 
on  very  different  schemes  or  subjects,  and  that  he  used  much 
of  them  to  direct  his  course  or  to  suggest  arrangements  of 
line,  taking  right  and  left,  but  always  wisely;  and  never,  if 
one  may  so  explain,  pilfering,  but  turning  the  river  edge  into 
his  own  garden.  A certain  nobility,  therefore,  sustains  his 
most  frivolous  notions.  When  obeying  the  last  whim  of  a 
fad  he  may  have  a manner  of  grace  which  lasts  far  past  his 
time  and  ours.  Take,  for  instance,  the  typical  painting  called 
“ Ladies  Decorating  a Term  of  Hymen, 55  in  the  National  Gal- 
lery. We  know  the  very  date  of  his  beginning  this,  or  rather 
of  his  arrangement  to  begin  it  — on  Monday,  the  first  of 
March,  1773,  when  the  Right  Honourable  Gardiner,  then  in 
London  for  his  marriage  with  Miss  Elizabeth  Montgomery, 
proposes  to  him  to  paint  this  young  lady  and  her  two  beau- 
tiful sisters,  who  are  also  engaged  to  be  married.  The  order 
given  to  the  painter  suggests  that  their  combined  portraits 
represent  some  emblematical  or  historical  subject,  as  was  the 
fashion  of  the  moment,  when  Sir  Joshua  could  also  paint 
a lady,  Lady  Bunbury,  “sacrificing  to  the  Graces.55  Sir 
Joshua  himself  describes  the  motive  of  the  portraits  of  these 
three  Montgomery  girls  as  “Adorning  a Term  of  Hymen 
with  Festoons  of  Flowers.55 


“This  affords,55  he  says,  “suffi- 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION  199 

cient  employment  to  the  figures  and  gives  an  opportunity 
of  introducing  a variety  of  graceful  historical  attitudes.” 
What  Sir  Joshua  meant  was  attitudes  that  you  might  have 
seen  beforehand  in  pictures  of  other  subjects.  So  he  goes 
on,  in  his  best  fashionable  manner,  and  says:  “I  have  every 
inducement  to  exert  myself  on  this  occasion,  from  the  subjects 
presented  to  me,  which  are  such  as  I am  never  likely  to  meet 
with  again  as  long  as  I live.”  He  concludes  with  his  usual 
declaration : “ It  will  be  the  best  picture  I have  ever  painted.” 

The  success  of  Sir  Joshua’s  picture  is  evident,  and  one  can 
well  realize  the  name  by  which  the  picture  went,  the  name 
given  to  the  young  ladies  themselves,  “The  Scots  Graces.” 
It  is  indeed  a beautiful  thing,  worthy  of  the  name  of  Scots 
Graces  or  others,  and  shows  a refined  combination  of  the 
historical  attitudes  created  anew  or  a second  time  from  what- 
ever memory  he  had;  in  fact,  a glorification  of  what  might 
possibly  be  reached  in  the  most  successful  tableau  of  society 
theatricals. 

This  charm  remains  historical:  the  world  of  art  could  not 
be  complete  without  Sir  Joshua.  Nor  can  others,  his  equals 
or  nearly  so,  be  understood  without  him.  Moreover,  he 
has  the  prestige  of  personal  association  with  the  names  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  He  has  also  written  things  worth 
reading,  and  his  wisdom,  his  balance,  his  getting  on  with 


200  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
the  world  are  also  all  in  his  pictures.  “ Nature  he  loved” 
— and  perhaps  more  “than  Nature  — Art”:  that  is  to  say, 
the  management  of  what  he  could  do.  Even  in  the  sketch 
books  of  his  youthful  days  in  Italy  he  marked  for  lessons  the 
balances  of  arrangement  and  subordinate  in  certain  paint- 
ers whom  he  admired  — and  he  also  admired  many  whom  he 
did  not  follow.  He  registered  for  each  picture  so  much 
light,  so  much  dark,  such  a place  for  warm  colour  or  cold; 
so  much  midway  between.  To-day  the  young  student  might 
copy  detail  or  invention  on  his  tour  of  learning,  but  such  an 
enlightened  foresight  to-day  would  bring  him  into  disrepute 
at  school. 

Sir  Joshua  studied  the  artistic  side  of  Art,  the  making  use 
of  colour  and  form  and  light  and  shade,  and  subject  and 
place,  as  a great  stage-director  groups  the  effect  of  his  com- 
pany on  the  stage  And  his  contemporaries  and  his  succes- 
sors caught  this  or  learned  it.  Hence  the  curious  suggestion 
of  artfulness  in  some  of  the  most  apparently  innocent  of  Sir 
Joshua’s  or  Gainsborough’s  paintings.  The  charming  lands- 
cape backgrounds,  for  instance,  are  stage  settings  more  and 
more  — indeed,  all  behind  the  sitter  or  person  represented : 
as  in  the  charming  picture  of  the  young  married  couple  by 
Gainsborough,  “The  Morning  Walk,”  where  the  holiday 
of  honeymoon  and  best  wishes  of  all  friends  is  painted  for  us. 


GENTILE  BELLINI 
MAHOMET  II 

LAYARD  COLLECTION,  VENICE 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS 
LORD  HEATHFIELD 

NATIONAL  GALLERY,  LONDON 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  HANFSTAENGL 


SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS 

LADIES  DECORATING  A TERM  OF  HYMEN  (THE  SCOTS  GRACES) 

NATIONAL  GALLERY,  LONDON 


THOMAS  GAINSBOROUGH 

THE  MORNING  WALK  (SQUIRE  HALLETT  AND  HIS  WIFE) 

COLLECTION  OF  LORD  ROTHSCHILD,  LONDON 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


THOMAS  GAINSBOROUGH 
MASTER  BUTTALL  (THE  BLUE  BOY) 

COLLECTION  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WESTMINSTER 


THOMAS  GAINSBOROUGH 
THE  HONOURABLE  MISTRESS  GRAHAM 

NATIONAL  GALLERY  OF  SCOTLAND,  EDINBURGH 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


THOMAS  GAINSBOROUGH 
MRS.  SIDDONS 

NATIONAL  GALLERY,  LONDON 


SIR  THOMAS  LAWRENCE 

MASTER  LAMBTON  (SON  OF  J.  G.  LAMBTON,  ESQ.) 


PORTRAITS  OF  FASHION 


201 


But  Gainsborough,  the  great  rival  of  Sir  Joshua,  touches 
nature  more  closely,  and  sentiment  more  often  comes  into 
the  faces  and  the  poses  of  his  charming  creations.  As  in 
the  “Blue  Boy”  or  “Mistress  Graham,”  they  certainly  have 
a life  of  their  own  even  if  we  see  that  life  in  holiday  dress. 
Mrs.  Siddons,  as  she  must  have  appeared  in  social  intercourse 
on  occasions  of  some  importance,  must  have  had  that  look  of 
elegance,  and  as  we  are  told  that  her  manner  was  somewhat 
cold,  we  can  believe  that  this  beautiful  flower  culled  in  the 
garden  looked  like  that.  One  somehow  might  wish  to  know 
how  the  flower  looked  in  the  garden  before  its  being  picked 
for  society  representation. 

Until  some  years  ago,  when  exhibitions  began  to  collect 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  London  picture  season,  the  value  of 
the  other  painters,  Romney,  etc.,  and  their  right  to  a place 
in  the  chain  of  English  art,  had  not  been  so  properly  felt. 
With  these  shows,  with  the  displacements  of  fortune,  which 
took  from  the  owners  of  land  and  gave  to  the  owners  of  stocks, 
came  the  privilege  of  adorning  their  walls  with  what  might 
look  like  the  possessions  of  a home.  All  these  beautiful  things 
began  to  be  understood  at  their  proper  value  as  some  of  the 
most  perfect  adornments  that  wealth  could  offer  to  itself. 

The  value  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  as  connected  with 
this  older  art,  as  keeping  also  in  another  way  the  many 


202  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
traditions  of  painting  which  came  from  Flanders,  began 
again  to  be  appreciated  and  marketed.  A thinner  and  also 
more  violent  way  of  painting,  a recognition  on  his  part  of  the 
influence  of  fashion,  a certain  Byronic  expression,  both  in 
attitude  and  in  the  landscapes  which  might  have  more  peace 
and  less  theatrical  meaning,  may  separate  him  from  the  larger 
past,  but  he,  too,  has  kept  the  English  tradition  and  has 
painted  the  appearance  of  society,  the  look  of  the  portrait 
being  a recognition  of  attainment  and  deserved  position. 
We  have  but  place  for  one  example  and  that  might  be  “Master 
Lambton,”  where  the  charming  affectations  are  connected 
with  a beautiful  appearance  of  the  beauty  of  boyhood.  The 
storm  behind  the  great  landscape,  the  Byronic  curls  on  the 
forehead,  the  attitude  of  contemplation  and  deep  meaning 
are  all  there. 


XV 

THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  — PART  ONE 


We  all  know  that  the  name  “school”  is  one  of  the  loosest 
of  designations  as  applied  to  literature  or  the  art  of  painting. 
In  the  arts  of  architecture  or  music,  which  are  based  upon 
strict  and  definite  physical  conditions,  and  upon  united  ef- 
fort, the  term  is  more  exact.  There  are,  of  course,  in  painting, 
actual  schools,  where  certain  masters  have  taught  certain 
others  who  themselves  have  again  had  pupils,  and  those  who 
have  been  taught  have  more  or  less  strictly  followed  a rule 
and  a mechanism  of  work.  But  often  what  we  mean  by 
schools  is  that  general  tendency  of  a given  moment  wherein 
certain  minds  either  affect  one  another  or  are  affected  by  the 
same  general  momentary  sentiment,  without,  sometimes, 
even  an  actual  personal  acquaintance.  In  this  way  we  can 
use  the  term  which  is  a convenient  one  and  not  a compli- 
mentary one.  We  know  from  our  acquaintance  with  literature 
that  the  poets  and  the  writers  of  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
century  and  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  reflect  a great 
storm  of  thought  and  politics  and  war  which  had  agitated 
the  world;  as  well  also  as  the  settling  of  the  waters  in  newer 
forms  of  society.  The  great  poetic  names  of  Germany  and 

205 


206  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  England,  Goethe  and  Schiller  and  Byron  and  Shelley  and 
Keats,  come  naturally  to  our  mind.  In  France,  where  paint- 
ers are  to  be  mainly  our  subject,  literature  showed  more 
slowly  the  effects  of  these  agitations  of  thought.  They  came, 
it  is  true,  and  in  a powerful  form.  Their  last  echoes  are 
scarcely  over  to-day.  With  Chateaubriand  in  full  sight  and 
De  Vigny  hidden  in  obscurity,  this  expression  began  to  be 
reinforced  by  the  loud  voice  of  Victor  Hugo  and  his  friends 
and  followers.  With  this  disturbance  of  internal  thought  and 
sentiment  came  also  an  expression  of  the  admiration  of  ex- 
ternal nature,  whose  permanency  is  a consolation  for  the 
disappointment  of  ambitions  or  rash  hopes,  and  whose  moods 
can  be  used  to  reflect  the  unrelated  moods  of  man.  Modern 
literature  again  gives  us  these  same  names  as  types  of  such 
emotions,  with  the  addition  of  many  others,  from  Wordsworth 
in  quiet  England  to  Lamartine  and  George  Sand  in  agitated 
France. 

The  art  of  painting  did  not  everywhere  feel  these  influences 
in  a like  degree.  The  art  of  the  painter  is  subjected  to  phy- 
sical conditions  of  patronage  and  expense  which  rarely  allow 
to  individual  likings  a sufficient  expression.  The  portraiture 
of  England  could  certainly  not  take  upon  itself  to  represent 
aspirations  against  the  established  order  of  the  beautiful 
conventionalities  of  good  society.  Blake,  perhaps,  indicates 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  207 

what  there  might  have  been;  but  in  the  development  of 
landscape  sentiment,  which  is  not  distinctly  opposed  to  polit- 
ical order,  England  had  a certain  form  of  romance.  The 
rest  of  the  continent  is  out  of  the  question,  but  France  de- 
veloped suddenly,  in  the  art  of  painting,  the  result  of  the  many 
years  of  storm  and  stress,  and,  at  the  same  time,  an  appeal 
to  the  eternal  beauty  of  nature.  In  this  latter  bloom  the 
influence  of  England  was  great.  It  was  but  the  kindling  of 
a spark;  for  what  the  French  artists  had  seen  of  English  art 
was  less  than  we  to-day  might  get  by  a fortnight’s  trip  to 
Europe.  It  so  happened,  also,  that  these  first  beginners 
were  touched  by  English  and  by  German  literature,  and  that 
the  stories  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  helped  them  to  a sympathy 
or  delight  in  that  past  which  was  irrevocably  destroyed. 
They  saw  in  it  many  things  that  were  wanting  in  the  settling 
commonplace  about  them;  and  they  realized  obscurely  that 
the  new,  more  bureaucratic  form  of  life  was  beginning  to 
crystallize,  even  in  the  art  of  painting,  by  the  establishment 
of  government  academies  and  teachings,  and  the  sacredness 
of  routine;  and  hence,  with  the  usual  doubt  about  anything 
new,  the  official  contempt  of  the  Academy  and  School  of 
Fine  Arts  for  anything  but  their  own  limited  past.  This 
certain  artists  saw  and  felt,  all  the  more  that  the  historians, 
also,  and  the  archaeologists  tempted  them  into  the  admira- 


208  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
tion  of  the  greater  past.  So  that  within  a few  years,  one  might 
almost  say  months,  a few  painters  expressed  these  confused 
sensations  in  what  appeared  to  be  new  forms.  To  them  it 
was  largely,  on  the  contrary,  an  interest  in  the  past,  an  admi- 
ration for  forms  of  art  farther  back  than  those  about  them. 

Gericault,  in  a couple  of  paintings,  indicated  this  sudden 
turn.  His  is  but  a first  note;  his  death  comes  almost  with 
his  first  appearance.  His  friend,  Delacroix,  was  to  strike 
at  one  blow  the  highest  note  of  what  might  be  called  a move- 
ment in  painting,  were  it  not  that  few  other  men  were  of 
sufficient  importance,  and  that  literature  expressed  more 
successfully  these  general  feelings.  In  fact,  literature  carried 
on  the  new  painters  into  relative  but  momentary  fame. 
Hence,  perhaps,  also  the  present  mistaken  idea  that  these 
few  successful  exponents  of  the  romantic  school  confused  the 
limits  of  writing  and  painting,  and  tried  to  express  in  the 
art  of  physical  representation  what  is  better  done  in  words. 
It  is  a known  yet  not  ancient  confusion  of  ideas,  the  result 
of  the  modern  tendency  to  specialty.  There  is  no  trace  of 
such  a division  and  intention  in  ancient  art.  The  religious 
idea  so  called,  for  instance,  supplies  a motive  and  buoys  up 
the  ancient  sculptor,  the  ancient  painter  and  designer  again. 

The  human  story  of  sentiment  found  in  the  Bible  allowed 
Rembrandt  to  unfold  still  further  the  art  of  painting 


EUGENE  DELACROIX 

DANTE  AND  VIRGIL  CROSSING  THE  STYX  (FRAGMENT) 


THE  LOUVRE 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  209 

Certainly  the  manner  of  Lieutenant  Dieudonnes,  turning 
suddenly  around  in  his  saddle  while  his  horse  plunges,  in  the 
wild  portrait  by  Gericault,  is  not  a literary  invention.  Nor, 
indeed,  the  fringe  of  arms  and  waving  draperies  in  the  paint- 
ing of  the  raft  of  the  “ Medusa.  99  There  remains,  it  is  true, 
in  Gericault,  a little  of  the  theatrical,  that  is  to  say,  of  the 
set  scene  notion,  derived  from  his  masters,  and  a great  deal 
of  the  study  from  life  in  the  Academy,  placed  in  what  should 
be  a moving  picture. 

In  the  first  painting  of  Delacroix,  the  “ Dante  and  Virgil 
Crossing  the  Styx,”  there  is  still  a fragment  of  study  from  the 
models  in  some  of  the  nude  figures  tossing  in  the  river  of 
Hell.  But  no  Academy,  no  posing  in  any  school,  invented 
the  hatred  of  the  damned  for  each  other,  and  the  biting  and 
tearing  that  surges  round  the  boat  of  Charon,  in  which  stand 
Dante  and  Virgil  as  they  pass  the  Styx.  No  models  of  any 
French  studio,  no  actors  in  any  theatre,  invented  the  gesture 
by  which  the  poet  Virgil  pacifies  the  poet  Dante  in  his  fear, 
and  teaches  him,  gently,  contempt  for  the  unknown  hounds, 
not  worthy  to  be  remembered,  who  fill  the  forgotten  mud  of 
Hell.  From  the  commonplace  of  ordinary  story,  the  acquies- 
cence in  polite  commonplace,  this  picture  emerged  for  the 
admiration  of  a few,  and  the  scandal  of  many,  astonished 
at  what  seemed  to  them  a new  subject  — which  would  have 


210  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
to  be  looked  up  and  which,  moreover,  belonged  to  a period 
of  what  they  thought  was  ignorance  — and  still  more,  sug- 
gested religious  questions  which  they  thought  forgotten  with 
the  past.  To-day,  with  our  schools,  and  our  reading  of  Dante, 
and  our  translations,  we  are  nearer  to  the  mind  of  the  painter, 
who  did  not  realize  that  his  public  was  neither  as  well  read 
nor  as  free  minded  as  himself.  The  painter  Delacr’oix  was 
merely  an  artist,  as  he  ought  to  be,  with  political  and  religious 
and  social  views  that  were  really  very  far  from  the  ideas  of 
the  other  great  artist  in  literature,  the  poet  Dante,  from  whom 
he  had  taken  his  motive.  What  was  new  and  is  perpetually 
new  is  the  expression  of  sympathy  in  the  human  meaning  of 
the  story,  in  what  is  the  real  drama,  not  the  theatre.  I 
might  describe  it  as  the  lyric  side  of  the  arts  of  representation, 
where  the  subject  is  not  taken  merely  because  it  gives  an 
excuse  for  placing  some  figures  in  some  particularly  hand- 
some attitudes,  or  of  representing  them  as  if  they  were 
real  to  the  touch  — whether  that  touch  make  them  of  flesh 
or  make  them  of  hard  wood,  as  is  too  often  the  case. 

This  picture  of  Dante  and  Virgil,  which  now  hangs  in  the 
Louvre,  much  altered  from  its  former  freshness,  is,  of  course, 
famous,  even  historically,  as  marking  a turning  point  in  the 
history  of  modern  art.  As  a proof  of  the  enormous  difference 
between  the  views  of  the  French  Academy  at  the  time,  and 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  211 

what  we,  to-day,  believe  to  be  what  makes  a masterpiece, 
the  critics  of  that  day  objected  to  the  unity  of  the  'picture , 
to  the  manner  in  which  every  detail  was  subordinated  to 
the  entire  story,  to  the  fact  that  each  part  made  a part  of 
the  composition,  and  that  one  could  not  pick  out  some  special 
place  to  enlarge  upon.  A still  better  proof  of  this  permanent 
trouble  of  Academies  is  that  at  that  very  moment  our  artist, 
who  in  his  modesty  considered  himself  a mere  student,  com- 
peted for  the  Roman  prize,  given  to  promising  young  men  by 
the  government  — and  was  numbered  sixty  on  the  list.  Who 
the  others  were  we  do  not  know.  I mean  that  nobody  has 
thought  it  worth  while  to  record  their  success,  though  their 
pictures  lumber  up  some  forsaken  corner  of  the  French 
School  of  Fine  Arts. 

We  realize,  insufficiently,  how  beautifully  the  stories  of 
Walter  Scott,  both  poems  and  novels,  fitted  into  this  desire 
of  knowledge  of  the  past,  this  wish  for  descriptions  of  some- 
thing outside  of  modern  society,  and  how  natural  it  was 
then  for  the  painter  I am  speaking  of  to  find  in  Sir  Walter 
subjects  which  would  have  human  interest  (a  quality  never 
wanting  with  the  dear  old  man),  and  at  the  same  time 'a  spirit 
of  romance  and  an  apparent  correctness  of  historical  accuracy. 

I have  chosen  for  another  example  Delacroix’s  picture  of 
the  “ Abduction  of  Rebecca”  by  the  Saracen  followers  of  the 


212  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
Templar  Brian  de  Bois  Guilbert.  It  is  not  exactly  a great 
masterpiece  when  compared  with  the  greater  work  of  the 
same  master.  But,  partly  owing  to  its  subject,  partly  to 
its  treatment,  it  might  be  called  an  excellent  example  of  the 
Romantic  School.  It  has  also  this  extreme  quality,  visible 
even  in  the  photograph  (that  loses  the  colour),  of  a fine  move- 
ment which  painting  had  not  seen  since  the  last  of  the  great 
painters  died  with  Rubens  and  Rembrandt.  To  be  able  to 
say  that  of  any  painting  is  so  rare  and  extraordinary  that 
this  artist,  deficient  in  many  ways,  is  thereby  lifted  entirely 
out  of  the  plane  on  which  have  stood  the  artists  of  the  eigh- 
teenth and  nineteenth  centuries;  and  alone,  perhaps,  unless 
we  think  of  the  quiet  fire  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  can  he  clasp 
hands  with  the  men  who,  above  all,  were  great  painters. 
That  is  to  say : men  to  whom  the  movement  of  light  in  nature 
was  translated  in  colour  and  shadow  in  the  small  field  of  their 
canvas,  and  who  emphasized  more  specially  the  merits  of  the 
art  of  painting  as  distinguished  from  the  art  of  sculpture, 
which  is  an  art  of  less  movement  and  less  dependence  on  the 
variations  of  light. 

Far  above  us  the  great  castle  of  Front  de  Boeuf,  Torquil- 
stone,  is  wrapped  in  clouds  of  smoke  which  obscure  the  bril- 
liant sky.  Down  the  side  of  the  hill  below  the  castle  come 
the  fugitives  of  the  story.  Up  the  hill,  into  our  foreground, 


ago 


EUGENE  DELACROIX 
ABDUCTION  OF  REBECCA 

TIIE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  213 

gallops  the  Templar  to  hurry  his  Saracens  before  news  of 
the  loss  of  Rebecca  has  reached  the  unknown  Knight,  Richard 
Coeur  de  Lion,  and  a rescue  can  be  attempted.  The  white 
costume  of  the  Order  blows  around  the  Templar  as  he  rises 
in  the  higher  air.  Horse  and  man  are  carried  in  one  sweep; 
and  in  this  little  space  the  great  weight  of  a horse,  the  great 
weight  of  a man  on  horseback,  the  lifting  of  a man  in  saddle, 
the  clinging  of  a rider,  and  their  coming  up  the  hill  to  us,  are 
expressed  as  well  as  in  any  but  the  greatest  statues.  Hurry 
is  the  meaning,  and  every  line  of  the  group  of  Saracens  before 
us  means  the  same.  Rebecca  in  a dead  faint  is  lifted  like 
baggage  to  the  back  of  the  horse  which  is  to  carry  her  off. 
The  rider  backs  the  animal  toward  us  to  make  iiis  grasp  easier; 
in  a moment  she  will  be  placed  and  carried  away.  Every 
line,  every  curve,  every  bit  of  mane  and  drapery,  even  to 
the  smoke  of  the  great  fire,  means  hurry  and  abduction. 

So  completely  does  our  artist  typify  the  so-called  “Roman- 
tic” movement  that  the  choice  of  examples  brings  us  back 
more  naturally  to  him.  One  other  of  that  date  might  be 
chosen,  and  that  is  Decamps.  But  the  separate  example 
might  not  be  sufficiently  important,  while  the  collected  work 
would  give  him  sufficient  standing.  Out  of  the  many  that 
I might  select  in  the  enormous  mass  of  Delacroix’s  produc- 
tions I shall  choose  the  painting  of  “The  Entrance  of  the 


214  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
Crusaders  into  Constantinople.”  The  painting  is  like  a 
chapter  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  But  here  is  pure  invention  on 
his  part;  merely  the  poetic  reconstruction  of  the  possibilities 
of  such  a theme.  Like  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  “ Count  Robert  of 
Paris,”  it  is  the  shock  of  Western  energy  against  Eastern 
wealth  and  apathetic  convention;  the  perpetual  story  of  the 
successful  barbarian.  But  it  has  more  than  that  in  it,  and 
more  than  even  the  successful  suggestion  of  a historical 
moment;  and  yet  it  has  that  also,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
modern  painting  the  costumes  and  trappings  of  the  Middle 
Ages  are  represented,  not  as  mere  archaeology,  but  with  the 
actual  record  of  the  thing  seen.  The  picture  has  the  meaning 
of  a great  drama  — employing  that  ill-used  word  not  in  the 
meaning  of  the  theatre , but  in  that  of  a condensed  impression 
of  agitated  life.  And,  like  lyric  poetry,  it  gives  the  record  of 
one  great  impression  — the  fatigue  of  victory,  the  confusion 
and  hesitation  of  unexpected  success.  Perhaps  some  of  the 
painter’s  older  military  friends,  remnants  of  the  great  con- 
quering armies  of  France,  perhaps  his  own  brother  the  general, 
Baron  of  the  Napoleonic  Empire,  may  have  told  the  painter 
anecdotes  of  the  straggling  of  conquerors  into  cities  too  large 
for  their  forces,  where  they  had  wandered  about  through 
streets  of  deserted  palaces,  and  stumbled  suddenly  on  half 
resistance  and  partial  submission,  and  the  temptations  to 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  215 

plunder,  and  to  the  license  of  success.  The  group  of  horse- 
men has  reached  the  upper  part  of  the  city  and  halts  before 
the  doors  of  some  palace.  Far  below  them  spreads  the 
Bosphorus,  and  the  mass  of  the  city  seen  from  above,  cut  up 
by  streets  that  are  marked  with  shadows.  Up  the  steps  be- 
hind them  rush  other  companies,  striking  right  and  left  in  the 
useless  rage  of  victory.  They,  themselves,  hesitate  at  what 
they  see;  a group  of  citizens  begging  for  mercy  in  fear  and 
confusion,  the  old  man  imploring,  the  women  and  children, 
some  innocent  victims  of  chance  blows  or  bolts,  lying  about, 
the  daughter  weeping  over  her  dying  mother,  and  some  old 
man  dragged  out  for  ransom  by  a brutal  victor.  And  with 
all  that,  the  representation  of  triumph  in  the  outlines  of  the 
lances  and  flags  floating  in  the  wind,  and  the  strange  proud 
mass  of  helmets  and  plumes  which  cut  against  the  vast  land- 
scape below  the  city.  Perhaps  this  is  a full  example  of  the 
romance  of  the  period,  and  the  memories  of  Byron  and  of 
Scott  may  well  be  invoked  before  this  example  of  a sister 
art.  No  paintings  since  that  day  have  had  an  equal  breath 
of  life  and  grasp  of  imagination.  Works  of  art  have  been 
constructed  carefully  and  with  precision,  and  with  the  patience 
of  accumulated  effort,  but  the  main  power,  the  essence  of 
the  drama,  the  seeing  of  all  together  at  one  moment,  has 
apparently  deserted  modern  art  in  its  more  ambitious  pages. 


XVI 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  — PART  TWO 


In  the  preceding  notice  of  what  I have  called  the  “Romantic 
School/5  following  a name  already  given  and  well  chosen, 
because  it  implies  external  manners,  I said  that  one  painter 
of  the  same  date  as  the  great  man  whom  we  chose  to  follow 
might  also  be  taken  as  a great  examplar,  and  that  is  De- 
camps. But  a single  example  did  not  seem  sufficiently  im- 
portant, so  that,  naturally,  I am  led  to  take  up  again  the 
work  of  Decamps  and  give  a few  of  his  paintings  which 
embody  the  full  meaning  of  this  moment  in  the  history  of 
thought. 

The  pictures  that  I have  chosen  were  painted  at  the  end 
of  the  career  of  the  painter,  and  in  a certain  way  they  have 
little  connection  with  his  previous  successes.  Of  these 
there  are  very  many  in  most  collections  throughout  Europe 
and  America  and  their  subjects  are  usually  of  an  incidental 
nature,  representing  what  the  French  have  called  “genre/5 
which  name  still  persists  for  a line  of  representation  difficult 
to  classify  and  analyze.  But  its  main  point  would  be  that  the 
subject  would  not  be  of  a dramatic  character  in  the  sense  of 
intention  of  deep  feeling.  However  this  may  be,  Decamps’s 

219 


m ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
earlier  work,  even  in  the  representation  of  very  indifferent 
subjects,  was  still  under  the  influence  of  the  spirit  of  the  time. 
It  has,  under  even  some  ugliness  of  work,  the  sense  of  a 
meaning  of  something  discovered  by  the  painter  — behind 
the  things  represented.  And  in  his  landscapes  this  is  oc- 
casionally very  strong.  Sometimes  he  has  been  helped  by 
his  admiration  for  the  Eastern  theme,  which  he  saw  and 
painted  almost  the  first  of  Europeans,  but  his  intense  feeling 
is  perhaps  still  stronger  in  his  expression  of  what  under 
another  hand  might  be  an  ordinary  subject.  In  English  art 
we  have  seen  that  intensity  in  many  of  the  paintings  of 
Turner,  but  they  have  been  usually  based  on  some  natural 
scenery  already  important  enough  to  fix  the  admiration  of 
any  passerby. 

But  here  let  us  take  a landscape  of  Decamps,  which,  if  I 
remember  right,  was  called  “The  Hunter,”  because  in  the 
foreground  we  see  a man  shooting  at  a water  bird,  which  slides 
away  from  the  quiet  pool  in  front  of  us.  Puffs  of  sunlit 
smoke  cross  the  deep  shadows  and  tell  us  of  the  report  of 
the  gun,  which  has  disturbed  the  peace  of  the  solemn  land- 
scape and  goes  echoing  along  the  rocks  that  line  the  water. 
Rarely  has  any  such  representation  of  sound  been  thought  of 
or  even  hinted  at,  and  yet  it  is  but  a mere  detail,  as  it  would 
be  in  a real  scene.  We  merely  notice  it  as  we  would  notice 


ALEX.  GABRIEL  DECAMPS 

THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CIMBRI  AND  TEUTONS  BY  MARIUS  (FRAGMENT) 

FROM  THE  LITHOGRAPH  BY  EUGENE  LE  ROUX 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  m 

the  sudden  sound  were  we  the  traveller  on  horseback, 
about  to  turn  the  edge  of  the  wood.  Like  him  we  pass  our- 
selves through  the  landscape  and  take  the  same  path  to 
which  every  line,  every  shadow,  every  movement  of  light  and 
shade  converge.  We  are  ourselves  then  the  traveller  who 
himself  is  as  unimportant  as  any  other  passerby.  Here 
nature  and  art  are  so  consummately  blended  that  one  cannot 
disentangle  whether  this  whole  scene  is  a mere  composition 
or  is  really  a transcript  from  nature  carefully  copied  with  a 
faithful  hand. 

The  less  serious  paintings  of  Decamps  brought  him  fame 
and  fortune,  and  it  is  to  his  great  honour  that  he  felt  tired 
of  a success  which  confined  him,  and  most  especially  kept 
him  from  the  expression  of  that  feeling,  that  manner  of  using 
art,  which  we  here  call  “ Romantic.”  At  a certain  moment 
he  gave  up  painting  to  be  quiet  for  a time  and  make  more 
serious  studies  for  what  he  felt  was  a new  departure  toward 
his  real  vocation  — and  then  Fate  overtook  him  and  closed 
this  peculiar  career.  Meanwhile,  his  last  works  were  not 
cared  for  by  the  public  or  by  the  critics.  It  is  fair  to 
say  also  that  they  were  not  given  out  as  complete  nor 
were  they  beautiful  in  certain  qualities  of  colour  which 
he,  himself,  would  have  desired  to  control.  But  of  late 
the  tide  has  turned  and  some  of  these  less  complete 


222  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
paintings  have  obtained  the  recognition  which  his  admirers 
predicted. 

The  Louvre  has  just  received  as  a great  gift  his  painting 
of  the  “ Defeat  of  the  Cimbri  and  Teutons  by  Marius.”  Of 
this  painting  there  are  variations  and  fragmentary  episodes, 
one  of  which  I give.  The  painting  in  the  Louvre  represents 
too  great  a surface  of  country  and  too  many  figures  to  be 
narrowed  down  to  a small  space,  such  as  we  have  in  this  page. 
The  mere  undertaking  of  the  subject  Was  in  itself  a mark  of 
the  tendency  of  the  moment  that  we  have  been  considering. 
A larger  view  of  history,  both  more  sympathetic  and  more 
connected  with  fact,  had  grown  up.  Here  we  have  the 
desire  to  represent  the  shock  of  two  civilizations  and  of  great 
bodies  of  men,  almost  nations.  In  the  other  bigger  painting 
(that  I do  not  give)  we  look,  from  higher  up,  upon  a vast 
space,  the  great  spread  of  country  which  even  to  this  day 
carries  the  memory  of  the  repulse  of  the  barbarians  by  civil- 
ized organization. 

In  the  picture  I here  give,  a momentary  episode  descriptive 
of  the  barbarian  defeat  fills  the  whole  space  nearer  to  us,  and 
only  above  this  group  of  fugitives  do  we  see  the  main  battle 
or  at  least  the  edge  and  explanation  of  it.  In  the  foreground 
a great  cart,  carrying  the  women  of  the  chiefs  and  the  ancient 
patriarchs,  slowly  creaks  along,  drawn  by  oxen,  urged  to  their 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  223 

lumbering  utmost  by  the  goading  of  their  drivers.  They 
are  crossing  a small  stream  and  delayed,  so  that  the  first 
outriders  of  the  Roman  conquerors  are  upon  them.  A few 
devoted  guards  fight  with  the  energy  of  despair  in  protection 
of  the  tribal  family.  We  can  see  that  it  is  too  late,  that  the 
heavy  carts  cannot  escape,  and  that  the  Roman  triumph 
will  carry  these  daughters  and  wives  of  chiefs  to  parade  in 
the  City  processions.  Behind  these  groups  of  the  convoy 
break  the  last  struggles  of  the  two  armies.  Further  up  on 
the  slope,  on  the  crest  of  the  low  hill  and  through  the  plain, 
we  see  the  orderly  evolution  of  the  Roman  army  breaking  into 
such  bits  as  that  in  the  foreground,  the  enormous  hordes 
that  we  but  guess  at.  For  the  picture*  has  the  quality  of  im- 
plying a larger  field  than  what  one  sees,  and  one  is  reminded 
of  the  stories  of  battle  in  which  the  spectator  has  only  seen 
his  corner  of  the  great  event.  Over  all  hover  the  clouds  in 
long  bands  and  in  uptossed  shapes,  throwing  light  or  shadow 
upon  the  vast  landscape. 

The  Eastern  studies  of  Decamps  had  made  him  ac- 
quainted with  larger  horizons  than  those  of  his  own 
country,  had  let  him  see  older  forms  of  life,  had  touched 
him  with  the  sense  of  history,  so  that  it  was  but  natural, 
when  he  tried  to  be  himself,  to  resort,  as  we  all  have,  to 
the  story  of  the  Bible.  He  chose  for  a time  the  episodes 


224  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
from  the  legend  of  Samson.  Some  of  these  were  painted, 
some  are  drawings. 

Of  these  I give  the  “ Samson  Seated  upon  tne  Rock  Watch- 
ing” the  fires  that  destroy  the  standing  corn  in  the  vineyards 
and  the  olives  of  the  Philistines.  In  this  the  sense  of  some 
strange  fact,  really  witnessed  by  him,  is  wonderfully  repre- 
sented by  the  painter.  However  great  the  spread  of  the  land- 
scape may  be,  and  we  feel  that  it  goes  farther  than  the 
picture,  that  man  on  the  rock  is  the  meaning  of  the  picture 
most  evidently.  Even  if  we  did  not  know  the  story  we  should 
not  be  surprised  at  being  told  that  he  is  responsible  for  the 
fire  and  the  columns  of  smoke  that  fill  the  plain  and  rise 
against  the  sky.  His  very  attitude,  the  holding  of  his  foot 
in  his  hand  in  easy  Oriental  pose  and  in  a manner  of  enjoy- 
ment, is  also  to  be  noted  as  showing  how  the  painter  had 
entered  into  the  feelings  of  the  hero  of  his  story. 

In  such  ways  most  of  these  works  of  Decamps  are  master- 
pieces of  composition,  if  by  composition  we  mean  the  inter- 
dependence of  every  part:  so  that  one  line  forces  another, 
and  each  division  is,  as  it  were,  an  explanation.  It  may  be 
this  very  mastery  of  what  is  really  composition  that  annoyed 
the  school  teachers  of  his  day,  for  whom  a few  given  recipes 
for  making  pictures  were  all  that  they  knew  and  all  that 
they  allowed  in  others. 


EUGENE  DELACROIX 
HAMLET  AND  THE  GRAVE  DIGGER 


FROM  A LITHOGRAPH 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  225 

Another  painting  of  the  series  of  Samson  is  still  more  im- 
pressive in  that  it  is  quiet.  It  is  “ Samson  in  the  Mill.”  There 
is  Samson  tied  to  the  wheel,  the  beast  of  burden,  chained, 
blind,  the  slave  of  the  very  slave  who  urges  him  on  with  the 
stick.  Meanwhile,  the  sun  that  he  cannot  see  sends  a ray  into 
the  building  wherein  basks  one  patient,  undisturbed  rat. 
This  detail  tells  the  story  of  the  constant  tread,  so  regular 
that  it  does  not  disturb  the  anxious  little  beast.  One  would 
like  to  know  what  Decamps,  now  master  of  many  manners 
of  rendering  form  and  light  and  shade,  would  have  made  of 
this  new  career,  wherein  the  higher  qualities  of  thought  and 
feeling  would  guide  his  experienced  hand.  As  I said,  his 
career  closed  as  he  had  begun  to  prepare  again. 

There  is  a painting  of  Decamps  wherein,  as  I have  just 
explained,  he  has  wisely  used  his  special  qualities  and  learning 
for  the  rendering  of  a subject  which  threatens  failure  to  any 
but  the  very  chosen.  This  is  “ Christ  in  the  Hall  of  Pilate 
Insulted  by  the  Guards.”  He  has  managed  in  the  simplest 
way  to  make  our  Lord  the  one  important  personage,  while 
around  Him  move  in  coarse  joy  the  guards  and  bystanders 
and  Jewish  haters  of  His  teaching.  Here,  too,  apart  from 
the  individual  attitudes  that  seem  almost  observed  from 
nature,  the  life  learning  of  Decamps,  his  knowledge  of  ar- 
rangement of  line  and  spaces,  is  the  basis  of  the  structure  of 


226  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
his  picture.  It  has  become  so  subtle  by  experience  that  one 
neither  detects  nor  cares  to  detect  it,  so  much  more  important 
is  the  mere  look  at  the  head  of  Christ  patiently  suffering  the 
indignities  of  the  story. 

As  we  began  our  notice  ot  the  so-called  Romantic  School 
WTitk  the  name  of  its  greatest  representative,  Delacroix,  we 
might  look  for  a moment  at  this  painting  of  his,  a scene  from 
the  poem  of  “ Faust,”  where  Valentine,  killed  by  Faust,  or 
rather  by  Mephistopheles,  curses  his  sister  Margaret.  We  all 
know  the  story  of  Faust,  through  play  and  opera  and  reading. 
But  in  those  days,  outside  of  Germany,  Faust  was  known  to 
but  a few,  and  as  with  many  of  Delacroix’s  subjects  the  public 
wondered  what  this  was  all  about.  Hence,  in  part,  a want 
of  appreciation  of  this  painter  by  his  contemporaries  which 
we  would  find  difficult  to  understand  to-day,  when  general 
reading  and  knowledge  of  foreign  literatures  have  made  us 
acquainted  with  a great  many  more  possible  motives  of  artis- 
tic representation  in  every  form  of  art.  It  is  worth  while 
noting,  however,  as  a valuable  fact,  that  on  seeing  Delacroix’s 
illustrations  to  his  own  “ Faust”  the  great  Goethe  said, 
“ Delacroix  has  surpassed  the  pictures  that  I made  to  myself 
of  the  scenes  that  I wrote  myself.”  And  here  we  can  under- 
stand the  praise  of  the  inventor  and  poet,  just  as  it  seems 
strange  that  the  public  of  the  day  did  not  understand  the 


THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL  227 

truthfulness  of  the  drama  in  the  picture,  apart  from  any 
knowledge  ox  the  book.  The  story  is  told  in  such  a way  that 
one  can  see  that  it  must  have  happened  over  and  over  again. 
Quiet  peace  of  a city  of  the  Middle  Ages  such  as  we  yet 
know,  and  the  night  suddenly  disturbed  by  riots,  the  neigh- 
bours, orderly  citizens,  coming  out  to  the  rescue,  the  city 
guard  too  late,  the  affrightened  pity  of  the  women,  the  agony 
of  the  poor  cause  of  it  all  as  she  rushes  out  from  her  house, 
the  motion  of  angry  resentment  of  the  dying  man,  while 
far  away  up  the  steps  of  the  narrow  street  the  two  gallant 
murderers  pass  away,  sheathing  the  swords  just  used. 

But  this  Shakespearian  intensity  and  completeness  of  drama 
are  not  obtained  at  will : it  may  be  long  again  before  in  the 
history  of  painting  the  living  scene , not  the  builded  combina- 
tion, shall  be  within  the  control  of  the  painter.  Indeed  im- 
mediately upon  the  death  of  this  man  came  up  for  a long  time 
a multitude  of  ingenious  presentations  of  historic  subjects, 
carefully  arranged  and  studied,  but  which  are  already  be- 
ginning to  tire  us  by  their  theatrical  convention  and  cold- 
blooded indifference  to  what  is  nature,  that  is  to  say,  the 
feelings  and  passions  of  men. 


XVII 

SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  — PART  ONE 


We  must  never  forget,  when  we  look  at  a work  of  art  of  the 
past,  especially  a picture,  or,  rather,  when  we  think  about  it, 
that  it  is  not  a free  expression  in  space,  but  that  it  is  the  result 
of  many  origins,  many  minds,  many  circumstances  — that 
religion,  race,  climate,  still  more  the  personality  of  the  artist, 
have  gone  to  make  it;  and  yet  more  again,  the  fact  that  rarely 
— except  in  the  most  modern  times  — is  it  otherwise  than  a 
thing  made  to  order;  a thing  to  suit  some  special  demand 
of  some  other  personality  or  personalities.  Sometimes  this 
has  helped;  sometimes  it  has  detracted  from  the  result. 
A well-known  artist,  whom  I knew  intimately,  was  asked  by 
a friendly  patron  if  his  last  work  (work  carefully  made  to 
suit  the  donor’s  wdshes)  were  not  as  fine  as  any  other  of  the 
artist’s  creation.  “No,”  said  the  artist,  an  honest  man, 
“such  and  such  are  better.”  “What?  Notwithstanding 
that  you  had  time,  and  pay,  and  appreciation?”  “No,” 
again  said  the  artist.  “In  your  work,  you  know,  I was  obliged 
to  yield  in  part  to  you;  that  part  is  yours,  and  not  so  good 
as  mine;  while  the  others,  I know,  are  better,  because  in 
them  I had  all  my  own  way,  and  they  are  all  my  own.” 


232  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
With  the  development  of  modern  appliances  of  civilization, 
academies  have  been  instituted,  salons  and  exhibitions  es- 
tablished, in  which  the  modern  artist  has  risked  paintings  of 
his  own  choice  and  invention,  unhampered  except  by  the 
desire  of  success  or  gain.  Whether  these  modern  results  of 
art  are  greater  than  those  of  the  past,  on  the  whole,  it  is  not 
my  purpose  to  inquire  now.  But  this  also  must  be  thought 
of  or  felt,  when  we  look  at  other  works  — other  objects  of 
art  — that  what  we  see  was  made  to  suit  a definite  request, 
constructed  as  a house  is  built  by  an  architect,  or,  if  not  too 
homely  a comparison,  as  a shoe  is  made  by  a shoemaker. 
Great  things  have  been  thus  done:  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
Raphael’s  Stanze  of  the  Vatican,  innumerable  decorative 
works,  and  many  pictures  which,  torn  from  the  places  where 
their  being  was  reasonable,  justifiable,  and  amply  explained, 
now  hang  in  museums  and  galleries  as  best  they  may  — next 
to  other  contradictory  ones  — in  lights  never  meant  for  them, 
as  if  — and  this  the  painter  feels  acutely  — several  orchestras 
played  at  once  Mozart,  Bach,  Beethoven,  Wagner,  and 
innumerable  other  compositions  of  sound.  One  of  the  curious 
examples  of  this  misplacement  are  the  paintings  which  once 
were  called,  for  convenience  of  classification,  “ Sacred  Con- 
versations.” Especially  in  Italian  art  do  they  occur.  They 
are  not  unlike  the  imaginary  conversations  invented  long 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  233 

ago  by  literary  men  or  poets,  in  which  people  who  could  not 
have  met  at  the  same  time  are  brought  together  for  purposes 
of  offering  some  thought,  or  insisting  on  some  impression. 
It  is  usually  a late  development.  Plutarch’s  example  marks 
a type,  and  in  Plato’s  records  of  the  conversations  of  Socrates 
we  have  the  idea  glorified,  with  a subtle  thread  of  probability. 
Some  few  of  these  painted  “conversations”  are  famous  — 
many  of  them  masterpieces  of  the  art  of  painting.  We 
may  select' two  or  three  at  random  — there  are  so  many  which 
have  each  some  charm,  so  that  the  less  important  ones  rival 
the  very  great  examples.  And  this  is  natural.  The  very 
fact  of  a more  artificial  plan  allows  the*  lesser  man  to  show 
great  qualities  without  drawing  upon  the  one  most  rare  gift, 
which  no  industry,  no  effort,  can  supply  — that  of  imaginative 
invention. 

Many  of  these  pictures  centre  about  the  Madonna  — as 
the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary  is  called  in  art  — because  of  the  fact 
that  these  pictures  are  all  religious;  and  as  the  devotion  to 
the*  Blessed  Mother  persists  in  the  Church,  in  a manner  in- 
volving her  Son,  the  representation  of  our  Lord  as  a child 
with  his  mother  takes  away  from  the  idea  of  a historical 
meaning.  Were  He  represented  alone. in  conversation  it 
might  look  like  a.  something  added  to  the  story  of  the  Gospel, 
or  a misapprehended  rendering  of  some  of  its  scenes.  Indeed, 


234  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
I can  remember  but  one  representation  of  Him  and  His 
Apostles  conversing.  But  the  Virgin  is  human.  The  Infant 
Child,  tended  and  cared  for  by  her,  makes  the  meaning  still 
more  human,  more  like  that  of  every  day.  Thus,  the  Madonna, 
apart  from  her  personality,  and  from  the  wish  to  honour 
her,  to  pray  to  her  Son  perpetually  for  future  centuries, 
through  a picture  of  Him,  placed  on  the-  wall  by  the  skilful 
hand  of  the  master  painter  — the  Madonna  with  the  Child 
typifies  the  Child  and  the  history  of  the  Child  and  its  per- 
petuity. Thus,  the  special  devotion  to  any  saintly  character 
— prophet  of  the  Old  Testament  — apostle  of  the  New  — 
martyrs,  doctors,  saints  of  all  kinds  and  degrees  — has  had. 
a representation  in  their  being  painted.  It  is  a manner  of 
assuming  the  reality  of  the  Communion  of  Saints.  The 
fact  of  their  being,  as  we  call  it,  “dead”  or  “alive,”  or  their 
having  been,  on  earth,  contemporaneous  or  not,  is  of  little 
consequence  in  their  relation  to  the  existence  of  the  Child 
Glorious.  It  is  not  always  mere  devotion  on  the  part  of  the 
donor  of  the  picture.  It  may  be  a,  record  of  the  personal 
name,  so  often  taken  from  Christian  tradition:  “James,” 
“Francis,”  “Benjamin,”  “John,”  “Clara,”  “Catherine.” 
These  pictures,  then,  hang  as  records  on  the  wall;  there 
may  be  some  story,  known  or  guessed  at,  which  this  choice 
thus  memorializes;  some  story  intentionally  hidden  therein; 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  23 5 

some  grief  — some  love  — some  memory,  merely  human, 
perhaps  — nay,  even  some  variety  of  profane  pride  or  desire, 
which  will  not,  at  least,  offend  the  good  taste  of  the  looker-on, 
who  is  not  in  the  secret. 

I remember  a painting  which  must  contain  the  personal 
record  of  a spiritual  life,  where  the  donor  kneels  meeting  the 
Christ  carrying  his  cross  and,  as  in  the  garden  of  theScripture 
story,  takes  himself  the  place  of  the  forgiven  sinner,  Mary 
Magdalen.  Thus,  as  it  hung  upon  the  wall,  he  could  live 
over  in  his  mind  the  facts  and  the  meaning  of  his  own 
hidden  story. 

The  painting  may  not  merit  the  name  of  masterpiece,  is 
little  known,  and  will  never  attract  the  homage  of  the  many, 
but  it  is  alone  of  its  kind  in  its  subject,  in  the  manner  of  the 
representation,  and  in  the  subtle  meaning  concealed  within 
it.  All  the  more  does  it  seem  fitting  that  it  should  have  been 
painted  by  that  charming  and  personal  artist,  Moretto 
of  Brescia,  whose  realism  so  often  covers  a manner  of  feeling 
which  leaves  upon  the  mind  of  the  spectator  the  impression 
of  a secret  not  fully  told. 

Here,  the  more  the  secret  is  told,  the  less  we  know,  unless 
some  good  fortune  of  research  within  the  life  of  the  donor 
explain  the  reasons  for  the  subject. 


236^  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 

He  was  a functionary,  an  ecclesiastic  of  some  kind,  and  he 
kneels,  as  we  see  in  the  picture,  portrait-wise,  his  hands 
clasped  upon  his  breast  in  devout  abstraction;  with  a slight 
frown  of  physical  tension  and  special  thought  within,  an 
attitude  which  is  evidently  familiar  to  his  profession.  Right 
by  him,  a book  with  open  pages  tells  part  of  his  thought,  and 
the  characters,  which  are  turned  upward,  are  much  abbre- 
viated, making  the  text  still  more  difficult  to  understand. 
It  breathes  a prayer  for  a pardon,  an  absolution,  a wish  not 
to  be  confounded.* 

Standing  in  the  garden  near  him  is  a broken  base,  for  a 
column  or  a statue;  thereupon  an  inscription,  part  of  which  is 
broken  off,  whose  abbreviation  may  run  in  this  way:  “To 

the  one  Mediator  between  God  and  man,  the  man  Jesus 
Christ.”  It  may  be  the  simple  expression  of  personal  belief, 
or  the  usual  statement  of  the  Church’s  doctrine,  or  it  may  be 
a concealed  protest  against  any  other  mediation;  a question 
that  then  troubled  the  entire  Christian  world.  But  there, 
and  at  that  time,  such  a statement  boldly  expressed  would 
have  been  against  the  prevalent  current  of  thought.  Still, 
it  is  forced  upon  one,  that  the  broken  base  once  held 

* It  is  part  of  the  thirty-first  Psalm,  the  thirtieth  in  the  Latin  Vulgate,  which  must  have 
been  the  Bible  known  to  him,  for  our  date  is  1518:  4‘  Make  thy  face  to  shine  upon  thy 
servant:  save  me  for  thy  mercies’  sake.  Let  me  not  be  ashamed,  O Lord;  for  I have  called 
upon  thee.” 


MORETTO  DA  BRESCIA  (BONVICINO) 
JESUS  CHRIST  AND  A DEVOTEE 


RAPHAEL 

THE  MADONNA  “OF  THE  FISH” 


THE  PRADO 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  237 

the  image  of  what  our  Devotee  once  cared  for  and  now 
gave  up. 

The  subject  of  the  picture  is,  however,  far  removed  from 
these  personalities.  It  is  the  Christ,  resurrected,  as  indi- 
ated  by  His  being  partly  naked  and  draped  in  His  winding- 
sheet,  and  He  walks  bearing  the  great  cross,  which  one  feels 
to  be  a heavy  burden,  this  time  all  by  Himself,  With  His 
own  sorrow  and  suffering,  and  gazes  up  into  the  circle  of  the 
heaVens  of  His  Father,  around  which  a few  adoring  angels 
indicate  the  Presence. 

This  representation  is  one  of  the  few  cases  in  which  the 
smaller  man,  carried  by  an  idea,  is  the  equal  of  the  greater. 
The  expression  of  loneliness,  and  the  weariness  of  passage 
through  this  world,  is  given  in  the  simplest  form  of  realism. 
Far  back,  in  the  Italian  landscape  of  ancient  simplicity,  is 
seen  the  Good  Shepherd  bringing  back  His  straying  sheep; 
evidently  again  a part  of  the  story  of  the  donor. 

A decipherable  example  we  have  here,  in  the  “ Imaginary 
Conversation,”  called  the  “ Virgin  of  the  Fish,”  by  Raphael. 
The  Madonna  is  enthroned  in  a large  antique  chair  upon  a 
platform.  An  old  man,  St.  Jerome,  known  by  his  attendant 
lion,  holds  a book  in  which  he  has  been  reading  — his  fingers 
mark  the  page  — and  watches  earnestly  the  little  Child  Christ, 
who  extends  His  hand  and  looks  intently  at  a tall,  bending 


238  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
angel  leading  to  the  Child  a suppliant,  a long-haired  youth. 
The  boy,  for  he  is  hardly  more,  carries  hanging  from  his  other 
hand,  a fish  — whence  the  name  of  the  picture.  The  boy, 
eminently  characteristic  of  Raphael’s  choice  and  taste,  is 
the  Tobit  of  the  Apocrypha.  The  fish  is  the  fish  in  his  leg- 
endary story,  whose  gall  cured  the  blinded  Tobias.  The 
angel  is  the  Archangel  Raphael,  the  “ Medicine  of  God,” 
who  had  guided  the  boy  Tobit  to  this  healing  of  his  father. 
The  entrance  of  this  book  of  the  Apocrypha  into  the  Canon 
of  the  Scripture  was  in  dispute  when  Raphael  painted  the 
picture.  The  Council  of  Trent,  thirty  years  later,  was  to 
settle  the  question  for  the  Catholic  Church.  All  doubts 
were  then  floating  about,  and  of  these  doubts,  this  was  one. 
It  may  not  have  been  exactly  in  the  mind  of  the  donor  of 
the  picture,  but  yet  it  would  be  but  natural.  Let  us  see  the 
record:  St.  Jerome  adopted  the  authenticity,  or  rather,  the 
canonical  rights  of  the  Book  of  Tobit.  This  is,  perhaps,  be- 
fore the  year  400,  the  fourth  century.  Before  that  there  was 
doubt,  or  mere  acceptance  as  a morality;  though  Polycarp 
in  the  second  and  Cyprian  in  the  third  century  looked  upon 
the  record  as  inspired.  After  Jerome,  the  Councils  of  Hippo 
and  Carthage,  in  the  fourth  aad  fifth  centuries,  consecrated 
the  Book  of  Tobit  — although  the  Church  adjourned  its 
solemn  decision  for  nearly  a thousand  years.  The  West, 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  239 

however,  had  consented  to  it  long  before.  Thus,  in  our  pict- 
ure, St.  Jerome  watches  steadily,  with  comprehensive  eye,  the 
hand  of  Christ  accepting  the  homage  of  the  angel,  with 
his  kneeling  client.  And  the  gaze  of  the  Child  Christ  meets 
the  adoring  supplication  of  the  archangel.  The  Virgin  sits, 
holding  up  the  Child  with  familiar  care,  and  her  eyes  rest 
kindly  on  the  hopeful  face  of  the  youthful  Tobit.  There  is 
here,  therefore,  a real  “conversation,”  if  one  may  say  so:  such 
a one  as  situations  bring  by  mere  actions  without  the  use  of 
words.  In  too  many  of  such  paintings  there  is  no  such  unity. 

It  may  be  that  this  unexplained  meaning  has  upheld 
the  fame  of  the  picture,  besides  the  grace  of  the  figures,  the 
solemnity  of  the  arrangement  of  what  one  might  call  the 
“function,”  and  that  balance  of  line  and  mass  which  is  to 
painting  what  orchestration  is  to  music 

And  now,  who  were  the  donors?  Ajid  why  did  they  choose 
this  meaning,  and  suggest  these  personages  for  this  picture, 
now  stored  far  away  in  the  gallery  of  the  Prado,  at  Madrid? 
They  were  the  Dominican  monks  of  the  Church  of  San  Do- 
menico Maggiore,  at  Naples,  whose  chapel  held  a crucifix  which 
was  said  to  have  once  looked  down  on  the  great  Dominican, 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas.  A tradition  of  help  had  been  formed, 
according  to  which,  prayers  for  recovery  of  sight,  or  similar 
help,  were  still  offered  up  by  sufferers.  As  in  the  Bible  story 


240  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
God’s  power  had  restored  sight  to  old  Tobias,  why  might  not 
their  prayers  help  obtain  favour?  Thus,  naturally,  the 
picture  would  hang,  a perpetual  record  of  Divine  Help  to  the 
unhappy;  an  inspirer  of  hope  and  faith  and  consolation  — 
for  with  hope  and  faith  goes  submission  to  the  Divine  will. 

There  is  a little  picture  in  one  of  the  galleries  of  Florence, 
painted  by  one  of  the  best  of  painters,  John  Bellini,  the 
elderly  leader,  respected  by  all  about  him:  from  Albert  Dtirer, 
who  earned  his  good-will,  to  his  great  successors  who,  under  the 
names  of  Titian,  Giorgione,  and  Tintoret,  have  somewhat 
drowned  his  light  in  their  accompanying  lustre.  He  painted 
to  a great  age,  and  his  last  painting  is  as  steady  and  complete 
as  if  the  hand  were  not  that  of  a man  of  eighty  and  more. 
John  Bellini  has  left  a little  picture  of  a “ Sacred  Conversa- 
tion,” now  in  the  Uffizi  of  Florence.  There  it  is  known  as  a 
“ Sacred  Allegory,”  a title  which  will  do  as  well  for  it  as  the 
one  I have  chosen,  because  it  is  full  of  allusions  and  meanings 
not  clear,  but  suggested.  But  whatever  the  mystic  meanings 
may  be,  it  is  eminently  a conversation.  Replace  the  per- 
sonages derived  from  sacred  story  by  some  set  of  courtiers 
and  fine  ladies,  people  of  distinction  — some  princes,  some 
cardinals  or  bishops,  or  ladies  and  gentlemen  living  the  higher, 
aesthetic  and  intellectual  life,  and  you  would  have  a fair  com- 
pany, in  a most  lovely  garden  retreat,  far  from  the  vulgar 


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SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  241 

world,  enjoying  the  beauty  of  nature  and  the  pleasures  of 
high-bred  social  intercourse. 

Is  the  little  painting  a masterpiece?  Perhaps  not  such  a 
one  as  Bellini’s  more  triumphant  and  more  ample  work. 
It  is  small,  some  of  its  details  are  a little  dry,  and  it  may 
naturally  have  been  ascribed  for  a long  time  to  a smaller  man, 
a lovely  painter  also  — Basaiti,  a Greek,  who  lived  and  died 
in  Venice.  I am  tempted  to  bring  it  up  before  us.  It  is 
unique  and  alone.  It  is  an  imaginary,  rather  than  a “ sacred  ” 
conversation,  except  for  its  actors.  But  it  is  treated  as  no 
one  before  or  after  has  rendered  such  an  imaginary  subject: 
as  if  it  had  really  occurred;  in  a place  as  clearly  defined  as  if 
looked  at  for  portraiture,  and  as  if  its  heroes  were  in  the 
perpetual  habit  of  such  meetings.  It  is  a scene  in  the  Isle 
of  the  Blest,  in  a paradise  continued  from  the  past;  a souvenir 
of  the  Elysian  Fields,  a country  where  the  heroes*  live  with 
the  Promised  Child,  in  a reminiscence  of  accustomed  earthly 
memories;  “ipse  videbitur  illis.9'  Rocks  and  mountains,  such 
as  Bellini  and  the  other  Venetian  painters  liked,  close*the  sight 
enough  to  tell  us  that  we  are  shut  out  from  an  every-day 
world.  But  far-away  castles  and  buildings  imply  an  ordinary 
life,  even  if  blessed  and  chosen  and  full  of  meaning.  A lake 
edges  all  this  distance,  and  where  it  is>  not  overhung  with 
steep  cliffs,  distant  figures  in  Oriental  dress,  walk  along  the 


242  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
quiet  shore  telling  some  story,  nearer,  perhaps,  to  the  Nile 
than  to  the  Italian  lakes.  As  these  cliffs  come  around  toward 
us  we  see  a hermit  in  a cave,  clad  in  the  ordinary  peasant 
dress,  who  meditates,  leaning  on  his  stone  table.  Outside, 
near  him,  on  the  narrowest  shore,  rest  or  feed  his  sheep  and 
his  goats.  Around  the  wall  of  rock,  in  the  shadow,  the 
strange  creature,  little  known  to  us,  but  familiar  to  the  monks 
of  Egypt,  a centaur,  waits  in  the  shade  for  some  one,  perhaps 
St.  Anthony  of  the  Desert,  who  comes  carefully  down  a set 
of  steps  guarded  by  a wooden  rail.  This,  then,  is  an  allegory, 
an  image  of  the  Thebais,  the  residence  of  the  hermit  monks 
of  Egypt;  it  could  not  be  more  different,  and  it  could  not  be 
better  typified  in  this  language  of  another  geography.  Rest, 
seclusion,  and  the  habit  of  extraordinary  visions  are  told  of 
in  this  dream  of  landscape.  On  our  own  Island  just  before 
us,  separated  by  a narrow  space  of  water  from  this  record 
of  the  hermit  life,  is  an  enclosed  space,  framed  by  a balustrade 
of  marble;  its  pavement  is  of  coloured  and  precious  stones. 
This  marks  a place  of  special  rest,  an  enclosed  garden  — hortus 
inclusus  — sacred  to  the  purpose.  At  one  end  and  corner 
of  it,  in  a great  seat  of  honour  crowned  by  an  allegorical 
canopy,  a cornucopia  partly  filled  with  leafage  and  fruit,  upon 
high  steps  sits  a figure  which  we  know  to  be  the  Madonna, 
though  she  has  no  halo,  any  more  than  the  other  saintly 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  £43 

or  divine  characters.  She  watches  with  folded  hands  the 
little  Child,  whom  also  we  know  must  be  the  infant  Christ, 
who  has  left  her,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  talks  in 
play  with  another  child,  half-draped,  like  a little  acolyte  or 
choir  boy  — - perhaps  the  little  St.  John,  his  companion  in 
so  many  pictures.  One  other  child  has  climbed  the  great 
basin,  where  is  planted  a little  tree.  He  shakes  it  so  that 
the  golden  fruit  has  fallen  for  the  other  children  to  gather. 
A lovely  saint,  with  long  golden  locks  and  crown,  half  kneels 
in  the  corner  of  the  enclosure  by  the  Madonna.  Her  eyes 
are  dropped,  her  mouth  is  half  open  in  prayer,  and  she  joins 
also  in  prayer  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  She  is  dressed  in  a 
flowing  mantle.  Contrariwise,  in  narrow,  folded  mantle 
and  strict  gown,  some  other  female  saint  stands  timidly  against 
the  balcony;  she,  too,  folds  her  hands  in  prayer;  so  does 
another  saint,  at  the  farther  right  hand.  He  must  be  one; 
he  would  not  otherwise  be  there.  He  is  almost  naked,  bearded 
and  browned  by  the  suns  of  the  desert  where  he  has  lived. 
And  his  companion  would  also  pray  with  joined  hands,  but 
he  is  St.  Sebastian,  and  his  hands  are  folded  and  bound  behind 
his  back,  according  to  his  pictures  on  earth.  He  is  white 
as  to  his  skin,  and  one  sees  that  his  clothes  have  been  taken 
away  from  him,  and,  as  in  pictures  of  his  martyrdom,  the 
mortal  arrow  stands  fixed  in  his  chest  also.  Both  the  saints 


244  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
are  praying,  whatever  their  action;  prayer  does  not  consist 
of  folded  hands.  Outside  the  balustrade,  leaning  against 
it,  in  the  more  open  garden  of  the  Island,  stands  St.  Peter 
looking  down  on  the  Child  Christ  and  praying.  He  is  not 
very  far  from  the  open  gate,  and  perhaps  he  guards  it.  Near 
him  St.  Paul,  one  hand  tightened  on  his  writings,  as  it  slides 
along  the  edge  of  the  railing,  turns  away  and  holds  up  his 
emblematic  sword.  He,  too,  is  a guardian,  and  his  face  in 
profile  is  fixed,  looking  at  a doubtful  personage  who  moves 
out  of  the  picture,  and  is  turbaned  and  clad  like  Jew  or  infidel. 


XVIII 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  — PART  TWO 


Perhaps  the  most  celebrated  of  the  ideal  arrangements  that 
we  know  under  the  name  of  Sacred  Conversations  is  Ra- 
phael’s Saint  Cecilia.  With  the  “ Madonnas”  whom  he  has 
represented  in  the  meaning  of  the  Great  Lady  Patroness 
surrounded  by  a court  of  worshippers,  or  beings  influenced  by 
her,  the  Madonna  and  the  Child  are  so  immeasurably  impor- 
tant that  We  do  not  at  once  classify  these  great  paintings 
as  belonging  to  the  simpler  idea  of  a meeting  of  people 
outside  of  Time. 

Saint  Cecilia  is  the  principal  personage  in  the  picture  that 
bears  her  name,  not  only  because  she  stands  in  the  centre 
of  a group  of  saints,  and  because  every  line  of  their  move- 
ments helps  to  make  her  more  important,  but  also  because 
the  subject  of  the  artist  is  listening  to  divine  harmonies. 
As  far  as  the  artist  has  been  able  to  effect  it,  the  other  saints 
unite  with  the  musical  saint  in  an  absorption  which  has 
given  to  the  picture  its  official  title  of  “Ecstasy.” 

As  we  have  explained  before,  the  problem  given  to  the 
painter  by  the  pious  donor  was  that  of  presenting  together  a 
certain  number  of  saints,  or  holy  people,  for  whom  the  donor 

217 


248  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
had  some  veneration,  or  to  whom  he  owed  some  tribute 
of  respect  on  account  of  sharing  names  with  these  blessed 
ones,  wTho  were  patrons  in  Heaveil, 

The  problem  has  always  been  a difficult,  almost  an 
impossible,  one,  but  long  custom  made  the  artists  of 
those  days  familiar  beforehand  with  their  probable  task; 
and  this  work  of  deep  sentiment,  looking  as  if  it  were 
the  voluntary  expression  of  a beautiful  thought,  was 
nothing  but  a business  task,  such  as  to-day  is  given  all 
the  time  to  firms  of  “Art  Decorators.5’  It  marks  the 
degradation  of  to-day. 

Similar  facts,  upon  which  I have  insisted  before,  are 
necessary  to  clear  our  minds  from  the  mistaken  and  barbarous 
modern  commercial  view  of  the  separation  of  the  arts  of 
painting,  one  of  which  divisions  is  Church  decoration. 

We  know,  more  or  less,  of  the  manner  of  the  ordering 
of  the  picture.  It  is  a form  of  memorial.  Cardinal  Pucci 
asked  Raphael  to  paint  this  picture  as  a family  memorial, 
and  also  as  a work  of  personal  devotion  to  Saint  Cecilia. 

The  story  goes  that  Pucci’s  voice  was  so  bad  as  to  be 
annoying  when  he  celebrated  Mass,  and,  as  a person  of  im- 
portance, this  was  of  consequence.  He  implored  the  inter- 
cession of  Saint  Cecilia;  in  six  months  of  lessons  from  a choir- 
master the  defects  were  cured.  This  is  an  anecdote  of  the 


RAPHAEL 

ST.  CECILIA  (ECSTASY) 

BOLOGNA  GALLERY 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


ANTONIO  ALLEGRI  DA  CORREGGIO 
MADONNA  AND  ST.  JEROME 

PARMA  GALLERY 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  249 

time,  valuable  as  helping  us  to  the  origin  of  the  picture, 
but  not  of  necessity  authentic. 

What  is  certain  is  that  the  chapel  near  Bologna  had  been 
built  by  a member  of  his  family  to  carry  out  a command 
received  in  a dream  by  a relative,  a noble  Bolognese  lady, 
Eleanor  Duglioli,  who  died  in  the  odour  of  sanctity,  and  was 
afterward  beatified. 

This  chapel  was  to  be  consecrated  to  Saint  Cecilia,  and 
hence  the  natural  family  memorial. 

Why  Paul  and  the  Magdalen  and  Saint  John  and  Saint 
Augustine  are  there  I do  not  at  this  moment  know,  but  they 
were  probably  chosen  for  the  reasons  given  above  for  the 
choice  of  patron  saints.  And  here  they  become  of  all  impor- 
tance as  increasing  the  appearance  of  listening,  and  thereby 
carrying  out  the  meaning  of  the  picture. 

A little  detail  is  worth  recording.  In  the  usual  habit  of 
the  day  other  artists  were  employed  to  help,  and  here  we  know 
that  the  famous  John  of  Udine  painted  the  organ  in  the  hands 
of  the  saint  and  the  other  musical  instruments  which  are  at 
the  feet  of  Saint  Cecilia. 

And  there  is  a foolish,  romantic  episode  connected  with 
the  success  of  the  picture:  namely,  that  it  caused  that  charm- 
ing painter  Francia  to  die  of  grief  because  of  his  inferiority 
to  Raphael.  But  he  may  have  felt  the  weight  of  sixty-seven 


250  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
years,  mostly  devoted  to  painting,  a sufficient  excuse  for 
departure,  without  the  anomalous  supposition  that  he  had 
not  yet  known  the  superiority  of  this  artist,  who  perhaps 
alone  of  all  painters  has  always  and  at  all  times  been 
admired  by  every  rival.  So  that  we  know  how  impor- 
tant the  picture  already  was  at  that  time,  to  have  so 
gathered  a tradition. 

This  tradition  determined  the  travelling  of  the  picture  to 
France  when  Napoleon  gathered  together  as  prizes  of  war 
the  masterpieces  of  Italy,  placing  them  in  the  Louvre*,  where 
they  served  to  teach  more  easily  the  artists  of  that  time, 
who  came  even  from  America,  as  did  Allston,  to  admire  and 
to  learn. 

The  picture  did  this  great  good,  but  to  its  own  existence 
the  result  was  unfortunate,  and  it  still  bears  on  its  surface 
the  misapplied  restoration  that  museums  too  often  inflict 
on  their  most  famous  treasures.  But  with  Raphael’s  paint- 
ings, usually,  there  is  something  in  their  make  which  resists 
the  injuries  of  misapplied  admiration,  beyond  what  average 
reason  could  expect.  The  intention  of  such  a design  is  so 
profound  as  to  carry  a special  form  of  life  with  it.  We  have 
seen  such  things  in  literature,  or  in  applied  literature  — for 
example,  Shakespeare  as  prepared  for  the  stage. 

If  the  engraving  given  here  is  fairly  executed,  the  reader 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  251 

will  be  able  to  understand  the  value  of  the  picture  better 
than  through  any  description  of  mine. 

Still  it  may  be  well  to  quote  the  words  of  Vasari,  the  con- 
temporary biographer  of  the  Italian  painters,  whose  simplicity 
of  expression  has  a charm  of  its  own:  “The  subject  of  the 
work  is  Santa  Cecilia  listening  in  ecstasy  to  the  songs  of  the 
angelic  choir  as  their  voices  reach  her  ear  from  Heaven  itself. 
Wholly  given  up  to  the  celestial  harmonies,  the  counte- 
nance of  the  saint  affords  full  expression  of  her  abstraction 
from  the  things  of  this  earth,  and  wears  that  rapt  expression 
which  is  wont  to  be  seen  on  the  faces  of  those  who  are  in 
ecstasy.  Musical  instruments  lie  scattered  around  her. 
(These  she  has  abandoned  from  their  failure  in  contrast  with 
angels’  singing.) 

“In  the  figure  of  Saint  Paul  listening,  the  power  and 
thought  of  the  master  are  equally  obvious : the  saint  is  resting 
his  left  arm  on  his  naked  sword  (the  sword  of  Faith) : the  head 
is  supported  by  the  right  hand  (which  caresses  his  beard,  as 
is  so  natural  in  abstracted  thought),  and  the  pride  of  his 
aspect  has  charmed  him  to  a dignified  gravity.  Saint  Mary 
Magdalen  also  forms  part  of  the  group  and  holds  a vase 
(the  vase  of  ointment),  made  of  a very  fine  marble,  in  her 
hand.” 

Vasari  praises  the  attitude  of  the  figures  as  “singularly 


252  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
graceful/’  but  it  is  more  than  that;  it  serves  to  throw  the 
entire  meaning  into  the  movement  of  the  centre  figure,  and 
in  that  way  is  a piece  of  intelligent  subordination,  where  a 
less  self-centred  artist  might  have  looked  for  more  dramatic 
importance. 

The  heads  of  Saint  Augustine  and  Saint  John  the  Evange-* 
list,  which  are  both  in  this  picture,  are  of  equal  excellence, 
and  Vasari  ends  his  account,  of  which  I only  give  part, 
by  quoting,  among  the  tributes  commendatory  of  the  artist, 
some  verses  composed  in  his  honour,  the  meaning  of  which 
out  of  the  Latin  is  this:  “Let  others  paint  things  one  by 
one  and  bring  back  the  faces  by  colours:  Raphael  has  given 
us  not  only  the  face  but  the  soul  of  Cecilia.” 

The  painting  by  Correggio  known  as  “The  Madonna  and 
Saint  Jerome,”  is  a contrast,  in  every  sense  but  that  of  per- 
fection, of  accomplishment  in  the  art  of  painting.  It  has 
even  more  in  that  art,  for  a great  part  of  its  charm  depends 
on  the  technical  development  of  light  and  shade,  of  what  is 
called  chiaroscuro  in  the  books  — that  is,  the  placing  of  the 
subject  within  an  atmosphere  which  is  coloured  in  a paint- 
ing, or  merely  black  and  white  and  gray,  as  in  our  photograph 
of  the  coloured  original.  It  is,  therefore,  later,  and  already 
in  many  ways  indicates  that  the  end  is  near  for  the  men  of 
the  Italian  schools.  A slight  something  of  affectation,  if 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  253 

one  did  not  hesitate  at  using  so  gross  a word,  is  felt  in  some 
of  the  details  of  movement,  but  it  is  an  affectation  all  based 
on  nature,  on  the  ways  of  people.  And  perhaps  in  this  case 
it  inclines  the  painting  more  toward  a manner  of  home  life, 
an  abandonment  of  any  relation  to  the  outside  world,  which 
always  affects  us  somewhat.  It.  is  most  decidedly  a sacred 
conversation  — a family  incident  in.  the  imaginary  poem  of 
the  Mother  and  Child’s  life  with  sweet  and  loving  saints; 
a glorified  angelic*  translation  of  home  affections  and  home 
incidents  and  the  importance  of  the  baby.  Every  one  has  seen 
the  same  thing  — but  not  perhaps  so  beautifully  composed 
with  such  flowery  draperies,  and  with  such  a landscape  of 
fable  behind  the  intimacy  of  the  nursery. 

It  may  be,  and  it  is,  of  course,  the  imaginary  Saint  Catherine 
Who  presses  her  cheek  against  the  baby’s  leg,  while  he  passes 
his  fingers  through  her  hair.  It  is  Saint  Jerome,  half  nude 
from  his  hermitage,  who  smiles  benignantly  at  the  baby’s 
touching  of  the  book:  certainly  that  great  book  translated 
by  him,  the  tremendous  Bible  which  we  know  as  the  Vul- 
gate. We  know  that  it  is  Saint  Jerome  because,  among  other 
reasons,  his  domestic  lion  has  accompanied  him,  as  if  accus- 
tomed to  such  friendly  visits.  But  what  is  most  evident  is 
the  kindliness  and  sweetness  of  liking  for  the  Child  shown 
by  the  aged  and  famous  theologian.  The  angel  turning  the 


254  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
leaves  of  the  book  is  an  older  cousin  and  enjoys  the  astonished 
pleasure  of  the  Child.  We  know  that  all  this  is  saintly  be- 
cause it  is  so  beautiful,  so  far  away  from  all  evil,  so  much 
within  the  definition  of  art  ascribed  to  Saint  Thomas  Aquinas, 
“the  land  of  innocence.” 

Let  us  go  back  to  an  earlier  date,  not  so  far  back  in  years 
as  in  spirit  and  in  the  development  of  the  special  art  of  paint- 
ing. There  is.  a delightful  painting  by  Mantegna,  owned  by 
Mrs.  John  Lowell  Gardner,  of  Boston,  which  offers  a very 
different  type  of  our  subject  from  the  lordly  representations 
of  Raphael  and  his  circle* 

It  is  more  like  the  Conversation  by  Bellini  given  before, 
but  it  has  that  strange  severity  that  never  leaves  the  ancient 
painter,  which  persists  in  this  pastoral  scene,  in  this  dream 
of  sweetness  and  of  light 

By  the  riverside  in  the  foreground,  filling  almost  the  entire 
space,  sit  a group  of  women  and  two  naked  children,  per*- 
haps  fresh  from  the  bath,  tlie  Infant  Christ,  and  the  infant 
John.  They  are  like  a family  party,  or  a number  of  friends 
well  accustomed  to  each  other’s  company.  Here,  in  what 
might  have  been  a conventional  and  frigid  arrangement, 
the  painter’s  sense  of  life  has  combined  the  separate  charac- 
ters, probably  chosen  for  devotional  reasons  (as  I keep  ex- 
plaining), in  what  seems  an  unpremeditated  arrangement; 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  255 

which  all  the  more  looks  as  if  it  must  have  happened  — as 
having  been  taken  from  an  actual  sight. 

The  Madonna  sits  in  the  middle,  facing  us,  and  in  an 
abstracted  way  looks  toward  the  little  Christ,  who  stands 
between  her  knees,  His  bare  feet  protected  by  her  cloak,  upon 
which  He  stands.  His  foot  rests  upon  her  and  forms  the 
start  of  all  the  many  folds  which  run  through  her  drapery, 
and  determines  the  arrangement  of  the  draperies  of  all  the 
figures  to  the  right  of  the  Virgin. 

However  natural  the  picture  may  be,  it  is  a learned  com- 
position, and  a beautiful  study  of  the  arrangement  of  folds, 
expressing  the  movement  of  the  body  and  the  character  of 
the  individual.  The  Madonna’s  dull  blue  mantle,  lined  with 
black,  frames  her  head  in  dark  and  makes  it  the  most  impor- 
tant. All  the  folds  of  her  dress  are  large  and  soft,  benign 
and  gentle.  Saint  Anne,  her  mother,  next  to  her,  draws  up 
her  hand  to  close  her  cloak  upon  her  bosom  in  a manner  sug- 
gestive of  feeling  and  also  of  the  protection  necessary  to  age. 
Her  gray  cloak  covers  her  head  and  falls  in  many  folds  of  a 
certain  severity,  contrasting  with  the  more  gentle  fall  of  the 
Madonna’s  dress  and  with  the  simpler  gown  of  Mary  Mag- 
dalen alongside,  whose  frock  is  merely  twice  girdled  and  is 
all  of  one  colour.  Her  drapery  shows  her  form  in  a sim- 
plicity of  attitude  which  the  face  above  carries  out.  She,  and 


256  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
all  but  one  of  the  women  of  the  group,  look  with  varieties  of 
meaning  and  expression  at  the  Divine  Child.  The  Mag- 
dalen’s hand  and  arm  rest  in  her  lap,  abstracted,  and  she 
holds  a little  pyx  of  red  gold,  which  is  her  symbol.  Near 
her,  on  the  edge  of  the  picture,  sits  some  other  saint  in  much 
more  worldly  dress,  like  that  of  the  period,  with  hair  in  curls 
down  her  cheeks  and  in  net  behind,  whose  face  expresses  a 
quiet  interest  in  the  Child  and  Mother,  but  also  appears  to 
talk  a little  to  the  saint  in  the  absolute  foreground. 

This  one  is  reading,  perhaps  aloud,  for  her  lips  are  open  and 
a slight  movement  of  the  face  seems  to  indicate  something 
more  than  the  silent  reading  to  one’s  self.  In  the  care- 
ful folds,  dear  to  Mantegna,  her  dress,  in  many  colours  and 
complicated  fashion,  spreads  out  upon  the  rock  on  which  she 
sits.  Here  in  these  folds,  and  in  the  whole  figure  of  the  saint, 
one  sees  that  fondness  for  form  and  its  strong  statement, 
which  is  the  mark  of  Mantegna.  Indeed,  from  the  Saint 
Anne  a statue  could  well  be  built. 

And  as  for  the  landscape  which  spreads  behind  the  figures, 
it  is  made  out,  in  its  flat  spaces  and  rising  ground,  as  if  to 
lead  the  spectator  to  a wish  to  wander  into  a land  so  full 
of  stories.  For  here,  not  far  off,  Saint  Christopher,  car- 
rying the  Infant  Christ  on  his  shoulders,  crosses  the  ford, 
indicated  by  piles  rising  from  the  water,  and  distant 


ANDREA  MANTEGNA 
MADONNA  AND  SAINTS 

COLLECTION  OF  MRS.  J.  L.  GARDNER,  BOSTON 
COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY  T.  E.  MARR 


FRANCISCO  HERRERA 
ST.  BASIL  DICTATING  HIS  DOCTRINE 

THE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  £57 

figures  wait  near  the  continuance  of  a peaceful  road  on  a 
farther  bank. 

There  gallops  Saint  George  in  full  armour,  on  the  heavy 
horse  that  knights  rode  in  action.  He  is  about  to  strike  with 
his  lance  the  dragon  that  crouches  behind  rocks  upon  a little 
green  sward,  where  lie  the  skulls  and  bones  of  his  victims. 

Farther  on  runs  the  road,  up  the  hill  and  round  the  en- 
closure, a peaceful  orchard  fronting  still  higher  ground,  also 
planted  with  trees,  wherein  is  laid  out  the  scheme  of  a great 
garden  in  the  Italian  way : and  further  back,  crowning  the  hill, 
a mass  of  buildings,  with  arcades  and  pyramids  and  an  aque- 
duct and  a classical  temple,  closed  in  by  the  foot  of  a fortress 
and  out-flanking  towers. 

On  either  side  of  the  river  rise  high  and  strange  rocks. 
On  our  side  the  rocks  rise  suddenly,  closing  in  the  sense  of 
garden  that  belongs  to  the  name  of  the  Madonna  and  to  the 
idea  of  a Sacred  Conversation. 

Up  in  a great  rock,  that  towers  in  the  top  of  the  painting, 
is  a cavern  of  two  openings.  In  one,  Saint  Jerome,  long- 
bearded,  kneels  before  a tall  crucifix,  and  bares  his  bosom 
to  strike  it  with  the  stone  of  repentance.  In  the  other 
cavern  his  friend,  the  lion,  watches  him  attentively. 

Higher  up  again,  on  a platform  near  another  opening  of  the 
cavern,  Saint  Francis  stands  in  excited  attitude  before  the 


258  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
winged  crucifix  of  legend,  the  vision  from  which  he  obtained 
the  wounds  of  his  Saviour. 

Some  way  nearer,  a monk,  with  his  back  turned,  waits 
patiently,  without  seeing  the  miraculous  scene.  One  is 
reminded  of  that  other  lovely  Sacred  Conversation,  attrib- 
uted to  Bellini,  where  outside  the  closed  garden  occur  far- 
away scenes  of  the  saints  of  the  desert,  emphasizing  the  per- 
petuity of  the  Church,  the  long  continuance  of  the  saints  in 
Heaven  with  us  of  to-day,  and  the  idea  that  all  these  acci- 
dents of  Time  and  Place  are  but  the  events  of  a moment 
in  the  scale  of  Eternity. 

As  our  eyes  come  down  again  to  the  nearer  figures  we 
feel  all  the  more  the  presence  of  the  two  saints,  the  one  seated, 
the  other  kneeling  on  the  right  of  the  picture.  The  one 
nearer  to  the  Madonna  looks  pensively  at  the  Infant  Christ, 
having  interrupted  her  reading  and  waking  up  from  her 
dream.  In  front  of  her  moves  the  little  infant  Baptist,  as 
if  he  had  just  come  from  his  bath.  He  offers  some  flowers 
to  the  other  Child,  resting  his  hand  on  the  Virgin’s  knee. 
He  does  this  with  a gentle  action  of  supplication  and  an 
upward  look  of  the  eyes,  which  the  Divine  Child  meets  in 
the  manner  of  a young  lord  accustomed  to  worship. 

Quite  to  the  right,  the  kneeling  saint,  in  a costume  very 
much  of  the  period,  kneels  and  looks  down,  scarcely  seeing 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 
THE  DISPUTE  ON  THE  TRINITY 


PITTI  GALLERY 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  259 

the  Infant  Saviour  to  whom  she  prays,  however,  with  hands 
pressed  one  against  the  other.  Those  hands  and  arms  close 
the  arrangement  on  that  side  of  the  picture,  and  we  feel 
that  there*  is  nothing  more  even  outside  of  the  frame. 

The  examples  that  we  could  retain  for  this  classification 
called  Sacred  Conversations  are  many  or  numerous,  accord- 
ing to  the  strictness  of  the  term.  It  was  habitual  in  more 
old-fashioned  days  to  give  this  title  to  many  of  the  pictures 
which  were  really  a representation  of  the  Madonna  and  Child 
and  certain  saints  accompanying  the  principal  figure  in  some 
other  way:  usually  in  rather  a formal  manner  or  way  of 
function.  Many  of  these  are  of  extraordinary  beauty. 
There  is  much  temptation  to  place  some  of  them  upon  our 
list,  but  if  We  look  strictly  to  representations  of  the  imaginary 
meetings  and  conversations  between  these  holy  ideals  of 
persons,  we  find  that  we  are  narrowed  down. 

I therefore  take  again  here  what  is  really  meant  to  be  a 
conversation  between  holy  persons,  an  imaginary  one  and  a 
choice  very  far  from  the  beautiful  quiet  that  pervades  our 
pictures  already  chosen. 

On  the  contrary,  the  painting  that  goes  by  the  name  of 
Saint  Basil  Dictating  His  Doctrine  is  a fierce  and  disagreeable 
representation  of  ecclesiastical  authority  and  the  harshness 
of  reasoning.  All  the  more,  perhaps,  that  it  makes  one 


£60  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
feel  the  essential  difference  of  religious  feeling  which  fills 
the  paintings  we  have  just  looked  at.  Theology  is,  as  a 
wrell-known  theologian  once  explained  to  me,  like  botany, 
compared  to  the  living  flower.  And  botanists  and  scientific 
men  are  usually  decided  in  their  views. 

Here,  then,  sit  Saint  Basil  and  various  saints  of  other  times. 
They  are  of  various  types,  but  none  of  any  other  form  than 
that  of  decision.  No  face  indicates  the  possible  softness  of 
a dove.  Clad  in  black  and  white,  in  his  lap  a big  book  on  which 
he  is  about  to  write,  he  holds  his  hand  uplifted  in  quiet  abey- 
ance. He  frowns  with  eyes  that  look  not,  absorbed  in  medi- 
tation, listening  to  the  Divine  Voice  of  the  spirit  above  him. 
Less  important  personages  than  Dominic,  Bernard,  Peter, 
the  Dominican,  Bishop  Diego  and  others,  wait  for  him  to 
speak.  These  greater  characters  named  wait  impatiently 
about,  ready  to  contradict  or  question.  Something  hard 
and  imposing  is  forced  upon  us  by  the  successive  outline  of 
these  heads  against  the  distant  sweetness  of  the  sky.  The 
mitres  and  the  cowls  accentuate  still  more  this  impression, 
evidently  meant  by  the  artist,  who  himself  was  a type  of  a 
peculiar  severity  amounting  almost  to  ferocity.  He  was  the 
first  master  of  the  great  Velasquez,  and  had  other  pupils,  but 
none  who  could  long  endure  the  ways  of  his  madness,  caused, 
it  is  said,  by  some  treachery  on  the  part  of  one  of  his  sons. 


PETER  PAUL  RUBENS 

THE  INFANT  JESUS  WITH  ST.  JOHN  AND  ANGELS 


BERLIN  MUSEUM 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  £61 

Whatever  may  be  true  of  the  legends  concerning  Herrera, 
he  has  embodied  here  an  ideal  of  the  popular  traditions  of 
the  “Inquisition” — an  ideal,  not  a protest,  nor  a copy  of 
fact.  So  that  one  can  feel  how  such  a painting  might  have 
dignified  the  great  walls  of  some  Spanish  cathedral. 

We  have  in  the  “ Dispute”  (a  discussion  on  the  Trinity), 
by  Andrea  del  Sarto,  a picture  whose  theory  of  subject  would 
resemble  the  one  we  have  just  looked  at.  It  is  an  imaginary 
conversation  between  holy  people  of  various  dates.  In  that 
way  it  may  be  taken  as  a very  complete  type  of  the  highest 
bloom  of  the  art  of  the  Renaissance,  embodying  all  its  aims 
and  all  its  qualities;  a very  perfect  work  by  a painter  so 
excellent  as  to  have  been  called  the  “faultless  painter.” 
With  him  the  feeling  for  the  newer  problems,  which  when 
solved  were  handed  down  to  us,  is  all  the  more  splendidly 
represented  that  this  great  artist  is  one  of  the  least  dramatic 
of  painters,  and  rarely  moves  the  spectator  to  more  than  an 
admiration  that  cannot  be  refused.  Here  one  feels  the 
“art  for  art’s  sake”  in  its  most  successful  form.  Colour, 
form,  movement,  line,  the  relief  of  light  and  dark,  are  all 
balanced  in  one  great  harmony  of  perfection. 

Let  us  see  who  these  personages  are.  There  is  the  Bishop, 
Saint  Augustine,  his  arm  extended,  arguing,  and  apparently 
closing  the  line  of  his  argument,  so  correct  and  so  just  is  the 


262  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
choice  of  the  movement  of  his  hand.  Peter  Martyr,  the 
Dominican,  is  the  personage  addressed  by  the  Bishop.  His 
face,  expressive  of  intellectual  acuteness,  follows  the  Bishop’s 
argument,  and  his  hand  keeps  the  big  book  open,  evidently 
at  the  place  then  in  question.  Next  to  him  Saint  Francis, 
who  takes  the  subject  in  another  way,  absorbing  it,  as  it 
were,  places  his  hand  on  his  heart  as  one  might  expect  the 
gesture  of  the  saint  of  sweetness  and  of  light.  Saint  Lawrence, 
behind  them,  listens  with  a neutral  expression,  seeming  per- 
haps to  watch  what  the  two  monks  may  think.  He  holds 
the  crucifix,  as  if  Christ  and  Him  crucified  was  all  that  he 
thought  of.  Mary  Magdalen  kneels  in  the  foreground,  lis- 
tening also  (a  most  feminine  contrast  to  the  expressions  of 
the  men)  — with  mouth  slightly  open  and  that  motion  of 
the  forehead  and  eyebrow  that  belongs  to  the  half  astonished 
feeling  that  one  understands  the  argument.  Of  Saint  Se- 
bastian, who  kneels  opposite,  we  know  nothing  except  that 
he  is  very  beautiful,  and  that  his  nude  back  represents  what 
the  painter  of  that  time  could  do,  now  that  he  knew  anatomy, 
and  light  and  shade,  and  colouring,  and  had  conquered  for 
all  time  the  representation  of  human  form.  Let  us  admire 
the  beautiful  rhythm  of  all  the  hands,  each  one  of  a separate 
character  and  beautifully  drawn,  and  yet  belonging  to  the 
new  movement  of  that  day,  the  pursuit  of  typical  beauty. 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  263 

The  hands  of  the  Magdalen  are  also  a wonder  in  their  dif- 
ferent expression,  in  the  unconsciousness  with  which  they 
hold  the  vase  of  ointment. 

There  can  be  nothing  but  words  of  praise  for  this  bloom 
of  the  Renaissance,  and  in  describing  it  I have  been  obliged 
to  leave  out  the  greater  parts  of  its  technical  merits.  And 
yet,  perhaps,  of  the  several  examples  of  our  subject,  this 
is  in  reality  the  most  indifferent,  the  one  in  which  there  is 
least  feeling,  as  if  we  saw  the  art  so  much  that  the  man  some- 
what disappeared.  And  this  is  not  against  the  impression 
that  this  remarkable  man  has  left  in  the  world  of  art. 

I feel  inclined  to  close  our  collection  with  a subject  painted 
by  Rubens : the  Infant  Christ,  Saint  J ohn  and  angels-,  which 
may  be  described  as  a conversation  without  words . To  say 
much  about  it  would  perhaps  be  out  of  place.  It  is  a beau- 
tiful Flemish  picture,  and  in  so  far  contrasts  in  its  national 
characteristics  with  the-Spaniard  and  the  Italians  at  whom 
■we  have  been  looking. 


PART  THREE 


XIX 

SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  — PART  THREE 


We  have  used  the  title  of  “Sacred  Conversations/5  an  old 
and  far-away  one,  though  still  official,  because  it  gave  us  the 
excuse  and  motive  for  bringing  certain  paintings  to  our  eyes, 
which  represent  sweet  beings  in  association  with  the  Virgin 
and  Child,  usually. 

This  sweetness  of  womanhood  we  know  belongs  essentially 
to  the  representations  of  Christian  art,  though  certain  Orien- 
tal works  indicate  the  necessary  exception  to  all  rules.  The 
history  of  our  art  of  painting  for  the  last  five  hundred  years 
is  marked  at  first  by  such  recurrences.  Then  there  are 
fewer.  Then  all  such  attempts  pass  away,  and  however 
charming  and  amusing  the  eighteenth  century  may  have 
made  its  sacred  stories,  as  with  that  last  Venetian,  Tiepolo, 
the  deep  feeling  of  something  sacred  in  woman  is  gone. 
Perhaps  in  Spain  one  may  discover  it  yet,  even  in  Goya, 
because  of  the  Catholicity  of  Spain.  But  the  eighteenth 
century  has  closed  that  feeling  for  the  whole  world  apparently. 
Something  like  this  is  noted  elsewhere.  It  comes  forever 
upon  us  as  we  look  once  more  upon  these  beautiful  motives, 
which  Derhaps  at  bottom  are  mere  results  of  orders  for  some 

267 


268  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
religious  picture  which  shall  have  certain  types  or  personages 
represented.  And  this  beautiful  notion  of  some  familiar 
action  is  only  possible  when  the  New  Art  of  the  Later  Renais- 
sance allows  it.  We  can’t  expect  it  even  with  the  men  of 
the  Earlier  Renaissance.  It  has  to  begin  with  the  sculptors 
because  they  know  the  human  figure.  They  can  give  to  sen- 
timent expression.  But  the  painters  are  soon  there  and 
beyond,  of  course,  and  let  us  not  forget  it  for  a moment,  all 
this  is  commercial.  Pictures  of  Madonnas  and  saints, 
female  mostly,  must  be  put  up  in  churches  and  private 
chapels  and  must  be  pleasant  to  look  at  and  as  far  as  was 
possible  to  the  art  of  the  moment,  for  it  is  only  slowly  that 
things  can  come  to  the  point  where  Vasari,  the  writer  (and 
painter,  of  course),  can  speak  of  Massaccio  as  “ giving  the 
world  as  it  looks.”  That  is  a form  of  definition  of  the  new 
art,  the  art  of  painting  on  which  we  live  mostly  to-day, 
trying  all  the  time  to  widen  the  limits  of  our  definition. 

But  even  many  of  us  to-day  like  conventional  representa- 
tions. Indeed  it  is  a commonplace  feeling;  such  represen- 
tations give  us  an  impossibility  which  looks  like  religion  — 
their  formality  seems  like  church  ceremonies,  their  emptiness 
recalls  the  respectable  forlornness  of  sermons  — of  the 
“Stickit  Minister”  even.  This  is  natural,  as  fortunately 
is  also  the  reverse,  and  there  have  been  happy  moments  of 


LORENZO  LOTTO 
MARRIAGE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE 


BERGAMO  GALLERY 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ALINARI 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  269 

enjoyment  of  change  even  in  religious  expression.  It  may 
be,  indeed  it  is  certain,  that  Fra  Angelico,  for  instance,  carries 
more  religious  sentiment  into  his  work  than  such  or  such  a 
Spaniard  of  much  later  times  — or,  taking  the  coolest  of  all 
the  poetic  painters  — of  Poussin  in  his  religious  subjects. 
But  Fra  Angelico  is  a great  painter  who  helps  on  the  tech- 
nique of  art,  just  as  have  the  others;  never  in  opposition  or 

\ 

in  retreat  into  the  past  (that  is  a modern  disease,  brought 
on  by  railroads  and  newspapers  and  cheap  outside  criti- 
cism upon  cheaper  people  — and  especially  commercial 
chances). 

To  continue:  Fra  Angelico  said  that  every  one  must  find  a 
few  saints  and  first-class  artists  in  the  same  persons.  Men 
died  and  that  is  all  there  is  to  it  in  art . Certain  people  have 
lived  and  expressed  their  feelings  in  the  modes  of  the  time, 
or  in  the  changing  of  these  modes,  and  when  they  are  gone 
their  expression  is  gone.  This  personal  note  we  should 
expect  in  such  subjects  as  those  which  give  our  title.  We  have 
restricted  the  title  to  the  conventional  limits.  Of  course 
farther  back  Van  Eyck  gives  us  what  are  really  Sacred  Con- 
versations, i.  e.9  occasions  where  saints  are  gathered  together, 
usually  under  the  patronage  of  the  Infant  Christ  who  is 
with  his  Mother.  They  read  or  they  pray  or  they  look  away. 

But  in  the  subjects  we  now  select,  the  progress  of  rendering 


£70  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
“whatever  exists  ’ — and  the  greater  and  greater  avoidance 
of  setness  brings  the  modern  look;  the  look  of  the  artists 
having  really  wished  to  make  you  believe  that  it  happened  so. 
And  the  “new  art”  brings  in  the  new  knowledges  and 
their  use,  perspective  and  anatomical  correctness  and  the 
use  of  light  and  shadow  — the  connection  of  all  with  all 
in  the  envelope  of  the  frame,  so  that  this  that  we  see  is  not  a 
piece  of  all  that  we  see  outside;  it  is  of  it  in  one  way  but 
is  a little  world  of  its  own  — what  we  now  call  a picture. 
And  the  painters  now  in  this  new  Italian  art  (destined  to 
permeate  all)  are  proud  of  meeting  difficulties  — difficulties 
of  drawing,  such  as  the  balance  of  pose,  such  as  foreshortening. 
The  latter  becomes  even  in  some  places  such  a mania  that 
we  have  the  record  of  one  painter  who  abandoned  his  work 
because  of  the  perpetual  appeal  for  more  foreshortening. 
Now  arms  seem  stretched  toward  us,  or  legs  the  same,  and 
we  feel  ourselves  the  fatigue  of  a great  deal  of  this.  The 
difficulties  having  been  surmounted  centuries  ago,  we  are 
no  longer  interested  in  them  as  charming  novelties.  They 
have  been  conquered  with  difficulty  — these  difficulties.  The 
very  first  of  the  choice  of  our  artists  will  be  one  who  passed 
from  stiffness  to  a final  ease  that  is  unsurpassed  — though 
his  last  work  is  little  known  to  the  vast  public,  being  out  of 
the  travelled  path. 


MADONNA,  CHILD,  TWO  SAINTS  AND  AN  ANGEL 

IMPERIAL  MUSEUM,  VIENNA 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  271 

We  have  noticed  elsewhere  this  very  special  sadness  which 
marks  certain  portraits  by  him,  in  which  he  has  put  most 
intimately  the  sympathy  with  his  sisters,  necessary  to  imply 
such  an  expression.  In  certain  cases  we  know  that  the  per- 
sons represented  wished  to  have  the  record  of  their  state  of 
mind;  in  others  we  presume  it,  because  of  this  curious  fact 
in  certain  other  cases. 

All  this  means  of  course  extreme  sensitiveness,  so  that 
we  shall  not  be  surprised  at  the  painter’s  delight  in  the  joy 
and  beauty  of  his  other  visions.  Take  therefore  this 
painting,  “The  Marriage  of  St.  Catherine,”  which  is  in  the 
gallery  of  Bergamo.  We  have  seen  elsewhere  how  this 
imaginary  subject  of  vision  and  dream,  with  its  mystic 
meaning  quite  Oriental,  as  its  origin  must  have  been,  has  been 
used  as  a record  of  devotion;  sometimes  no  doubt  with  a 
meaning  belonging  to  the  donor  but  not  expressed,  some- 
times on  the  contrary,  as  in  this  one,  distinctly  indicated. 
I refer  to  its  being  a special  choice;  perhaps  the  donor  wished 
the  name  of  a Catherine  known  to  him  made  of  record  in  a 
thing  of  beauty  and  sentiment.  Perhaps  it  is  a mere  record 
of  devotion  to  the  Child  and  the  Mother.  There  could  be 
no  greater  elegance  in  this  half  artificial  pose  of  the  three  main 
persons  in  the  action.  A curious  consciousness  accompanies 
their  delightful  movements.  I know  of  no  such  refined  com- 


£7£  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
bination  unless  perhaps  in  some  veryiew  of  the  artists  of 
Northern  Italy  — Milanese  perhaps,  or  perhaps,  Ferrari. 

There  is  so  much  personal  sensation  in  the  art  of  these 
more  northern  men  that  there  may  well  be  a general  analogy. 
They  seem  to  yield  to  their  emotion,  not  to  affront  it  deliber- 
ately, and  have  a reticence  in  their  joy,  which  divides  them 
from  the  rather  too  great  certainty  of  the  artists  of  the  more 
central  Italy. 

One  might  like  to  describe  the  painting  we  have  here: 
the  grace  of  the  women  and  the  elegance  even  of  their  dress 
which  is  unusual  perhaps  portrayed  as  the  face  of  at  least 
St.  Catherine.  That  must  be  the  secret  of  Nicolo  di  Bonghi 
who  must  have  ordered  it  painted  in  15£3.  His  stupid  por- 
trait is  on  the  left  and  perhaps  we  have  done  well  to  omit 
it.  The  upper  part  also  of  the  picture  is  cut  away;  because 
also  it  once  contained  a beautiful  landscape  which  some 
plunderer  of  a foreign  army  cut  out  and  carried  away  long 
ago.  Inconvenient  it  must  have  proved,  and  perhaps 
therefore  lost  forever.  But  the  picture  loses  little  if  any- 
thing by  our  cutting  away. 

A similar  elegance  belongs  to  our  other  painting  by  Lotto 
from  the  gallery  of  Vienna.  But  it  is  less  important  because 
of  there  being  no  special  meaning  such  as  the  intention  of 
the  marriage.  All  the  more,  however,  does  it  belong  to  our 


TITIAN  (VECELLI  TIZIANO) 

MADONNA,  CHILD,  ST.  JOHN  AND  ST.  CATHERINE 

NATIONAL  GALLERY,  LONDON 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  HANFSTAENGL 


ANTON  VAN  DYCK 

MADONNA,  CHILD  AND  ST.  CATHERINE 

COLLECTION  OF  A.  A.  SPRAGUE,  CHICAGO 


SACRED  CONVERSATIONS  273 

type  of  the  Sacra  Conversazione . The  movement  and  every 
detail  of  the  angels  who  crown  the  Madonna  are  enough  to 
distinguish  a group  not  otherwise  so  different  from  others. 
This  is  again  St.  Catherine  reading,  perhaps  again  a portrait; 
and  St.  James  kneels  beside  her.  Perhaps  she  turns  toward 
him  expressly,  but  in  so  far  the  gentle  blessing  of  the  Child 
passes  unnoticed  over  her  to  the  Apostle;  an  inconvenience 
of  introducing  portraits  by  order. 

We  can  see  the  connection  of  such  subjects  by  calling  up 
next  the  beautiful  Titian  of  the  National  Gallery.  As  in 
the  last  there  is  open  landscape  far  off,  so  as  to  make  our 
subject  more  intimate  by  contrast,  for  we  are  so  near  to  the 
St.  Catherine  that  her  dress  touches  the  frame.  That  frame 
or  its  four-square  limits  absolutely,  with  the  certainty  of  Titian, 
the  extent  of  the  picture.  We  could  not  go  further,  our  eye 
could  not  go  farther  to  right  or  left. 

We  need  not  explain  the  picture.  It  is  all  there  before  us, 
but  there  is  no  more.  Wonderful  as  is  its  success,  we  feel 
that  it  must  be  so,  that  all  has  been  prepared.  And  if  we 
could  at  once  compare  another  painting,  let  us  say  of  some 
Venetian,  profane  even,  not  quite  Titian,  Palma  let  us  sup- 
pose — not  sacred  — even  profane  of  some  group  seated  in 
a landscape  we  should  be  comforted  by  a certain  resemblance : 
That  of  the  formula  of  arrangement.  Shall  we  follow  St. 


274  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
Catherine  still  further?  She  is  an  ideal  in  such  subjects. 
Were  there  no  special  meaning,  she  gives  the  feminine  roles 
the  mystic  meaning  with  no  assistance  or  with  a direct 
rendering  as  we  saw  in  that  first  painting  of  Lotto’s  when  the 
little  Child  places  the  symbolic  marriage  ring  on  the  adoring 
Catherine. 

Here  is  a Flemish  painting,  which  never  would  have  been 
painted  had  not  Titian  and  others  been  at  work  before  Van 
Dyck  or  his  master  Rubens  went  to  Italy  to  study  and  also, 
most  certainly,  to  work  and  produce  and  suit  customers  who 
wisely  thought  well  of  them.  Here,  though  all  recalls,  yet 
nothing  exactly  imitates.  And  then,  throughout,  the  Flemish 
feeling  and  a less  detached  view  strike  chords  very  different. 
Certainly  the  St.  Catherine  “ placing”  and  expression  — her 
being  only  partly  seen  — - and  her  absolute  absorption  — the 
other,  the  Mother’s  rapt  contemplation,  make  a more  dis- 
tinctly religious  frame  of  mind.  And  yet  this  connects,  as 
we  know  and  see,  with  Italy  so  much  visited  and  studied. 
And  even  more,  when  one  has  seen  Van  Dyck’s  sketches  and 
notes  from  Titian  and  his  accompanying  artists  — notes  of 
all  kinds,  written,  copied,  abridged,  almost  concealed  — it 
is  difficult  to  be  sure  that  somehow,  somewhere,  a memory 
has  not  been  lodged. 


XX 

ANNUNCIATIONS  — PART  ONE 


In  the  representation  of  stories  or  incidents  taken  from  the 
history  of  the  Church  there  is  a double  current  of  intention 
worth  our  thinking  of.  There  is  an  encouragement  of  such 
representation  by  the  Church  as  a form  of  teaching,  as  a 
manner  of  reminder,  especially  in  days  when  the  picture  was 
a form  of  book.  There  is  also  the  sympathetic,  spiritual 
choice  of  those  who  ordered  such  things  from  the  painters 
because  a special  subject  appealed  directly  to  some  previous 
desire  or  reminiscence.  There  was  also,  very  especially, 
and  there  still  remains,  somewhat  of  a belief  that  the  act 
itself  of  placing  such  a memorial  is  one  to  bring  spiritual 
benefit  upon  the  donor,  apart  from  the  usual  credit  we  obtain 
from  our  joining  in  the  usual  forms  of  worship.  And  we 
must  remember  that  such  memoranda  of  pious  belief  were  not 
simply  for  the  adornment  of  public  worship,  but  that  they 
were  used  for  every  one,  more  or  less,  to  catch  the  eye  at 
moments,  or  to  be  the  fixed  station  which  would  call  to  prayer. 
With  the  invention  of  engraving  there  came  for  the  vast 
public,  and  especially  for  the  poor,  the  possibility  of  having 
at  any  moment,  at  small  prices,  the  benefit  of  these  means 

277 


278  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  grace.  Conversely,  then,  the  men  who  did  these  things 
for  the  public  filled  the  great  commercial  need.  They  worked 
to  supply  a market;  they  worked  to  express  the  wishes,  the 
fancies,  of  patrons,  and  to  do  so  according  to  the  fashion  of 
the  time.  The  makers  of  these  images,  therefore,  are  not 
absolutely  free  agents;  they  are  talking  for  others.  And 
they  rarely  have  such  a free  expression  as  we  attribute  to 
the  work  of  art.  But  occasionally  the  sympathy  of  the 
artist  with  the  subject  required  of  him  is  so  complete  that 
the  result  seems  a free  offering  on  his  part.  In  the  choice 
of  some  religious  subjects  it  might  be  possible  to  single  out 
a few  which,  are  types  of  the  unity  of  religious  intention.  One 
of  the  many  reasons  why  religious  art  has  given  us  so  many 
masterpieces  is  an  apparent  contradiction.  This  reason  is 
that  the  subject  has  been  used  before,  is  very  well  known,  and 
has  been  the  source  of  complete  successes.  On  that  account 
comes  the  strong  desire  to  sing  the  old  song  again  in  newer 
metres,  and  another  success  is  added  from  the  very  difficulty 
of  the  conditions. 

The  field  of  religious  painting  is  so  great  that  one  hesitates 
in  a choice.  The  representation,  however,  of  the  Annuncia- 
tion, the  Angelic  Salutation,  is  so  delicate  a theme  that  the 
very  undertaking  of  the  picture  seems  to  have  eliminated 
the  more  commonplace  results.  To  take  three  out  of  so  many 


ANNUNCIATIONS  279 

seems  an  arbitrary  decision.  We  shall  take  three  of  a 
period  so  early  as  to  keep  intact  the  bloom  of  medieval  feeling, 
and  yet  of  a date  late  enough  to  allow  the  artist  a sufficient 
knowledge  of  the  painter’s  art. 

The  earliest  representation  of  the  story,  in  the  West,  is 
in  the  dark  vault  of  one  of  the  tombs  in  the  cemetery  of 
Priscilla,  where,  upon  the  crumbling  plaster,  is  represented 
what  we  see  to  mean  a woman,  seated  in  a red  chair,  who 
looks  astonished  as  a young  man  stretches  out  his  right  hand 
to  her  in  annunciation.  This  first  form  of  the  story  will 
scarcely  change  for  centuries  — until  the  general  love  and 
passionate  interest  and  devotion  to  the  Mother  of  Christ, 
the  help  of  sinners,  who  are  too  conscious  of  their  infirmities 
to  address  Him  directly,  invents  new  methods.  The  modest 
figure  of  Mary,  a mere  symbol  in  the  Catacombs,  becomes  a 
Byzantine  priestess  and  then  a queen  of  glory.  Lastly,  with 
this  glorification  of  womanhood,  with  the  romance  of  chivalry, 
is  born  the  idea  of  the  Madonna,  the  symbol  of  the  purity 
of  maternal  love,  the  unselfishness  of  feminine  devotion. 
In  the  same  way,  the  perfunctory  archangel  in  the  rude  fresco 
of  the  Catacombs  becomes  in  the  Byzantine  mosaics  and 
sculptures  some  hero  of  the  skies,  resplendent  in  colour  and 
light,  until  transformed  in  later  art  into  some  shape  of  sweet 
and  innocent  sympathy  almost  childlike  in  its  smile.  But 


280  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
the  main  line  of  attitude  remains  intact,  preserving  the  teach- 
ing of  the  fathers  in  accordance  with  the  candid  legends  of 
early  date.  Even  the  small  detail  of  legend  that  told  how 
the  Virgin  had  been  busy  with  household  duties,  spinning 
and  drawing  water,  is  kept  in  many  early  images.  Always 
the  posture  of  Mary  remains  with  some  meaning  of  gospel 
story:  either  the  shrinking  modesty  of  attitude,  withdrawing 
from  the  messenger,  or  the  absolute  trust  in  God  which  makes 
her  kneel  to  receive  the  divine  command.  As  the  repre- 
sentations increase  in  number  with  the  greater  reverence 
for  her  personality,  either  in  opposition  to  heresy  or  from  the 
inevitable  trend  of  devotion  to  the  idea,  the  divine  messengers 
partake  more  and  more  of  the  feelings  that  fill  the  hearts  of 
worshipers.  They,  too,  salute  the  “Help  of  Christians,  the 
Tower  of  Ivory,”  so  that  Dante  asks  of  St.  Bernard,  in  Heaven, 
“Who  may  be  the  angel,  keeping  within  his  eyes  the  Queen 
of  Heaven,  so  enamoured  that  he  appeared  to  be  of  fire?” 
Instead  of  the  merely  extended  hand  or  the  Byzantine  staff 
of  office,  Dante  and  the  painters  give  the  messenger  of  Heaven 
the  branch  of  palm  or  the  sceptre  of  lilies.  Before  the  steps 
of  the  angel  and  under  his  feet  bloom  the  flowers  of  Paradise. 
Or,  again,  in  more  austere  simplicity,  but  with  still  more 
tender  sympathy,  the  angel  bows,  pressing  his  hands  to  his 
breast,  in  worship  of  the  humility  which  meets  his  salutation. 


VITTORE  PISANO  (PISANELLO) 


MASTER  OF  ST.  SEVERIN  (SCHOOL  OF  COLOGNE) 
AN  ANGEL  APPEARS  TO  ST.  URSULA 


ANNUNCIATIONS  281 

So,  in  two  of  those  paintings  which  we  have  chosen,  each 
actor  in  the  scene  expresses  this  feeling  of  submissive  respect 
to  the  divine  order.  The  first  one  is  by  a lesser  artist,  whose 
tradition  is  not  that  of  a specially  devout  mind;  what  we  have 
of  him  is  astonishing,  however,  for  the  quality  of  sincerity 
and  for  a perception  of  the  real  which  gives  to  even  his  driest 
studies  an  importance  rivalling  the  accomplishments  of  the 
greater  men.  The  damaged  fresco  here  copied  is  disturbed 
still  more  than  through  decay  of  time,  by  the  placing  before 
it  of  modern  sculpture.  The  figures  of  doves  on  one  side 
and  a little  dog  on  the  other  in  the  corners  are  a form  of 
signature  well  known  to  those  who  have  followed  the  many 
studies  of  animals  in  the  drawings  of  the  great  collections 
by  our  artist,  Pisano,  called  Pisanello.  I doubt  if  here  they 
have*  any  special  symbolism,  but,  as  I hinted  in  the  begin- 
ning of  this  notice,  we  must  remember  that  the  artist  of 
past  time,  as  the  decorative  artist  of  to-day,  was  often 
required  to  insert  some  new  fancy  of  his  patron,  more 
or  less  willingly,  as  it  might  fit  into  the  scheme,  which 
he  was  naturally  forced  to  make  for  himself.  This  small 
point,  as  well  as  the  very  important  one  of  the  space  within 
the  space  and  shape  in  which  the  artist  is  ordered  to  place  his 
work,  is  one  of  the  hidden  problems  that  give  most  trouble, 
that  are  the  inevitable  basis  of  design  and  yet  are  unexplain- 


282  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
able  usually  to  the  ordinary  eye ; Here  the  painter,  fond  of 
reality,  has  built  all  the  accuracies  of  a real  scene  — the  chest 
upon  which  the  Virgin  sits,  the  Oriental  carpet,  which  must 
have  seemed  to  him  a proof  of  Eastern  residence,  the  little 
footstool  put  aside,  the  orderly  bed  far  back  in  a Gothic 
recess,  the  leaves  of  trees  spotting  the  sight  through  the  little 
windows,  even,  perhaps,  the  little  lap-dog  looking  in  doubt 
at  the  celestial  messenger.  And  his  intense  perception  of 
life  sends  the  angel  down,  whirled  as  if  a big  bird,  just  lighted, 
with  wings  still  quivering,  the  gown  outstretched,  the  head 
bent  low,  the  hands  folded  on  the  arms,  all  in  the  hurry  of 
immediate  message.  Perhaps  the  doves  in  the  foreground 
outside  the  house  came  naturally  to  his  mind  on  thinking 
of  what  Dante  called  “the  divine  bird/’  the  angel  above. 
But  all  — the  head  and  wings  and  folds  of  drapery,  and  closed 
arms,  open  mouth,  and  fluttering  hair,  even  to  the  little  bit 
of  palm  in  the  hand  — make  a series  of  line  expressing  "devout 
respect  and  obedience.  And  the  Virgin’s  pose,  her  hands 
together  on  the  knees,  her  placid  listening,  her  being  all 
wrapped  up  in  a big  mantle  that  contains  her,  show  her  in 
this  lovely  realism  as  modest  and  resigned  as  the  angel  is 
hurried  and  anxious  to  fulfil  his  order.  This  is  Italian  realism. 

Another  example  is  not  an  annunciation  of  the  gospel 
story:  it  is  the  appearance  of  an  angel  messenger  to  a maiden 


ANNUNCIATIONS  283 

saint  — the  mythical  St.  Ursula,  delight  of  many  painters. 
The  painter  has  told  the  story  of  such  a message  in  the  manner 
of  a dream,  out  of  the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of.  This 
is  German  realism,  still  belonging  to  the  Middle  Ages.  It  is 
Germany  of  the  Rhine,  the  place  sacred  to  the  story  of  St. 
Ursula.  Hence,  also,  it  connects  with  Burgundian  and 
Flemish  origins,  and  the  master  who  painted  it  is  so  far  un- 
known except  by  some  other  work.  But  it  has  been  given 
to  him,  in  the  innocence  of  his  integrity,  to  combine  the 
most  simple,  almost  childish  realism  with  the  sense  of  the 
marvellous  — the  reality  of  a dream.  For  this  is  the  way 
that  our  dreams  are  real:  we  are  sure  of  all  sorts  of  little 
every-day  matters,  and  feel  them  about  us,  while  the  im- 
possible happens  to  us,  in  what  we  do  not  know  to  be  sleep. 
From  such  a sleep  the  very  youthful  virgin  saint  awakes, 
only  just  disturbed  enough  to  show  that  there  is  something 
strange.  She  makes  a slight  attempt  to  sit  up  in  her  bed, 
wherein  she  is  shut  off  from  the  outside  world  by  the  heavy 
curtains,  in  the  fashion  of  that  very  day,  except  where,  on 
one  side,  again  in  the  old  way,  the  curtain  is  bunched  in  a 
great  homely  fold,  and  there  stands  an  angel  lighting  up  this 
little  artificial  room.  Like  the  good  priests  and  preachers 
of  the  day,  dressed  in  a great  ecclesiastical  cope,  he  tells  his 
story  as  from  the  pulpit,  stating  it  upon  his  fingers,  as  the 


284  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
preacher  does  when  he  argues  and  divides  his  text.  His 
face,  reminiscent  also  of  the  kindly  faces  of  ecclesiastics, 
is  anxious  for  the  accuracy  of  his  message.  It  is  such  a dream 
as  might  happen  in  any  kindly  family  accustomed  to  its 
ecclesiastical  instruction,  and,  were  it  not  for  the  gorgeous 
wings,  the  invading  light,  and  the  drapery  ending  in  nothing 
(as  it  does  in  dreams),  the  angel  might  be  some  kindly  minister 
preaching  from  a godly  text  to  some  sweet,  girlish  soul.  But 
there  is  no  doubt  of  the  supernatural:  every  prosaic  detail 
confirms  it  more  and  more.  And  to  the  experienced  artist 
the  manner  of  this  impression  is  visible  through  the  singular 
use  of  some  of  the  simplest  means.  Note  the  great  per- 
pendicular lines  of  the  angel  and  the  canopy,  and  that  or- 
dinary detail  of  an  embroidered  seam  which,  crossing  the 
bed,  repeats  line  after  line  of  level  spread,  and  melts  into  the 
long  sleeves  of  the  angelic  messenger,  disappearing  again  — * 
as  everything  does  in  the  nothing  of  a dream  — where  the 
edges  of  clothes  and  bed  on  the  firm  stand  of  solid  things  melt 
into  the  shaded  floor.  It  may  be  that  once  upon  a time  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti  may  have  seen  this  picture,  if  the  dates  of 
his  trips  to  Belgium  allow  it.  He  had  used  a similar  treatment 
on  similar  lines;  but,  however  beautiful  the  result,  however 
romantic  the  conception  of  the  Virgin,  there  is  no  such 
suggestion  of  a miracle  in  the  wilful  modern  work  of  art  as 


FRA  ANGELICO  DA  FIESOLE 
ANNUNCIATION 

CONVENT  OF  SAN  MARCO,  FLORENCE 


ANNUNCIATIONS  28  5 

in  the  still  more  realistic  image  of  the  unknown  painter.  It  is 
only  because  of  its  being  forced  upon  my  memory  that  I allow 
myself  a comparison  which  must  contain  some  inevitable 
injustice. 

In  the  same  way,  how  impossible  to  compare  the  Annun- 
ciation which  Fra  Angelico  painted,  along  with  many  other 
pictures,  in  his  convent  of  San  Marco  of  Florence.  There 
are  just  so  many  cells  for  the  monks,  and  in  forty  of  them  are 
frescos  painted  on  the  walls  by  himself  or  his  disciples.  This 
is  in  the  one  called  by  the  number  three.  Its  shape  echoes 
the  opening  of  the  window  — that  must  have  made  another 
lookout,  another  pleasing  space  in  the  absolute  bareness  of 
the  little  rooms.  Somebody  has  prettily  said,  “One  opened 
on  this  world,  and  the  other  on  the  spiritual.”  This  was 
somewhat  after  1443,  when  the  convent  was  completed, 
having  been  built  by  the  Brothers’  friend,  the  great  architect 
Michelozzo.  It  was  a gift  of  Cosimo  of  the  Medici  to  the 
Dominican  Brotherhood,  of  whom  Brother  Angelico  was  one. 
He  must  have  been  forty-six  years  old,  approaching  the  matu- 
rity of  his  artistic  talent  and  well  confirmed  in  religious  life. 
Into  that  he  had  entered  thirty-five  years  before  with  his 
brother  Benedetto.  He  was  then  called  Guido  da  Vecchio. 
Thereafter  he  is  known  as  Brother  John  (Giovanni)  Angelico, 
and,  we  add,  of  Fiesole.  He  had  probably  learned  to  paint 


286  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
before  he  entered  the  Dominican  order,  moved  to  do  so, 
apparently,  by  one  of  the  revivals  of  faith  which  passed  occa- 
sionally through  a country  sufficiently  skeptical  and  worldly. 
He  became  a great  master,  and  he  is  one  of  the  precursors 
of  the  new  forms  of  art.  But  his  growth  is  so  slow,  or  rather 
so  difficult  to  analyze,  that  he  can  be  taken  also  as  a part  of 
an  earlier  day.  In  reality,  he  was  connected  with  the  newer 
movement,  but  as  his  work  is  preeminently  the  expression 
of  his  meaning,  less  notice  has  been  taken  that  his  manner  of 
painting,  what  is  called  technique,  meets  amply  all  that  is 
asked  of  it.  And  that  he  did  also  a great  deal  of  little  work 
— shop-work,  it  might  be  called  — for  the  use  of  churches  or 
the  devout,  has  made  him  appear  sometimes  less  of  a master 
of  art  than  he  really  was.  And  this  spiritual  life  so  struck 
the  imagination  of  his  time  and  of  the  future  that  we  think 
of  him  more  as  a saint  who  was  a painter  than  as  a painter 
who  was  a saint.  The  account  of  him  given  by  Vasari,  the 
recorder  of  Italian  art,  expresses  this  double  character. 
“ Rightly  indeed  was  he  called  Angelico,  for  he  gave  his  whole 
life  to  God’s  service,  and  to  the  doing  of  good  works  for  man- 
kind and  for  his  neighbour.  He  kept  himself  unspotted  from 
the  world,  and,  living  in  purity  and  holiness,  he  was  so  much 
the  friend  of  the  poor  that  I think  his  soul  is  now  in  Heaven. 
Rich  indeed  he  might  have  been,  yet  for  riches  he  took  no 


ANNUNCIATIONS  287 

thought.  He  might  indeed,  had  he  so  chosen,  have  lived  in 
the  world  in  greatest  comfort,  and,  beyond  what  he  himself 
already  possessed,  have  gained  whatsoever  he  wanted  more, 
by  the  practice  of  those  arts  of  which,  while  still  a young 
man,  he  was  already  a master.  He  was  wont  to  say  that  true 
riches  consist  in  being  contented  with  little.  He  might  have 
borne  rule  over  many,  but  he  did  not  choose  to  do  so,  believ- 
ing that  he  who  obeys  has  fewer  cares  and  is  less  likely  to 
go  astray.  It  was  in  his  power  to  have  held  high  place,  both 
within  his  order  and  wdthout  it;  but  he  cared  nothing  for  such 
honours,  affirming  that  he  sought  no  other  dignity  than  the 
attainment  of  Paradise.  He  used  often  to  say  that  he  who 
practised  art  had  need  of  quiet,  and  of  a life  free  from  care, 
and  that  he  who  had  to  do  the  things  of  Christ  ought  to  live 
with  Christ.” 

Disengaging  what  he  did  from  the  necessary  hand-work 
of  his  assistants,  it  is  certain  that  the  world  is  right  in  its 
acceptance  of  Vasari’s  belief  that  his  paintings  expressed 
his  inner  life.  And  in  the  painting  of  the  Annunciation, 
the  little  fresco  easily  painted  on  the  wall,  we  have  the  mark 
of  one  side  of  his  art,  the  ineffable  peace  and  reticence  of  the 
cloister.  It  is  a cloister  room  in  which  Mary  kneels,  on  the 
plain  wooden  bench  of  a monk,  in  the  form  of  obedience  of 
which  Vasari  speaks,  and  the  angel  speaks  to  her,  like  another 


288  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
devotee,  of  obedience  to  the  Lord’s  will,  self-contained  and 
reticent  under  the  order  from  on  high.  Just  outside,  half 
seen,  is  the  great  founder  of  the  order,  St.  Dominic,  who  looks 
with  uplifted  hands  at  this  scene  from  the  Gospels,  which  is 
visible  to  his  mind;  and  he  blesses,  as  it  were,  the  hand-work 
of  his  spiritual  son,  the  painter.  The  story  could  not 
be  told  more  simply,  in  a more  fitting  way,  for  the  cloister, 
as  if  the  mere  record  of  the  fact  were  enough  for  the 
beauty  of  the  subject. 


XXI 


ANNUNCIATIONS  — PART  TWO 


The  Annunciation  by  Fiorenzo  de  Lorenzo,  which,  is  now  in 
Mrs.  John  Lowell  Gardner’s  house  of  the  Fenway,  Boston, 
and  which  formerly  hung  on  the  outer  wall  of  the  Porziuncula 
in  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli,  at  Assisi,  is  a 
type  midway  between  all  the  extremes  of  sentiment  and 
realism:  in  that  way  a delight  of  simplicity  of  intention.  In 
a great  hall,  of  which  we  see  only  a part  — two  arcadings  and 
a corner  of  a vaulted  corridor  — the  Virgin  kneels  to  receive 
the  words  of  the  angelic  messenger.  We  are  very  close  to 
them  — they  are  just  in  front  of  the  painting.  The  angel 
kneels  on  one  bent  knee.  He  has  hurried,  and  his  draperies 
fall  in  sudden  but  precise  folds  and  are  arrested  upon  the 
marble  floor.  In  one  indifferent  hand  he  holds  the  lily  of  the 
Annunciation,  and  the  other  with  delightful  stiffness  points 
with  one  finger  to  the  upper  places  from  which  he  has  come. 
Or,  rather,  it  is  a motion  of  a finger  repeating  a lesson,  a 
message  which  is  partly  an  order.  Nothing,  in  its  simple 
way,  could  be  more  real  without  the  addition  of  any  unneces- 
sary truthfulness.  His  very  look,  the  steadiness  of  his  eye, 
are  proofs  of  the  certainty  of  his  message  and  almost  of  his 

291 


292  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
habit  as  a messenger.  The  Madonna,  kneeling  before  him, 
may  have  been  standing  and  now  have  knelt  for  the  message, 
so  that  her  drapery  falls  into  an  arrested  movement.  She 
has  hardly  interrupted  her  book  prayer.  She  listens  just 
enough;  she  listens  with  that  special  look  which  belongs  to 
obedience,  and  which,  in  a more  ideal,  more  poetic  way,  we 
saw  in  Fra  Angelico’s  Madonna.  And  only  a little  marking 
of  the  eyebrow  may  represent  some  manner  of  astonishment. 
Her  face  is  the  simple  portrait  of  the  recipient  of  a message, 
as  the  face  of  the  angel  is  that  of  the  bearer  of  one.  These 
two  people  are  all  by  themselves  in  the  big  hall,  and  yet  they 
are  not  solitary  — they  are  only  a little  more  out  of  the  world. 
The  hall  looks  cool  in  its  many  tones  of  white  and  gray. 
Black  and  gray  and  white  are  the  colours  of  the  pavement 
which  stretches  out  into  a far  perspective,  through  a distant 
corridor  and  the  beginning  of  a garden.  Upon  the  White 
wall  of  the  right  corridor  count  the  gray  trims  of  the  clear 
gray  stone  of  Florence.  Those  doors  are  nicely  closed.  The 
privacy  is  increased  instead  of  broken  by  the  openings  of 
their  frames.  Outside,  beyond  the  central  corridor,  which 
technically  and  in  pure  decoration  is  the  motive  of  the 
picture,  a brick  wall  begins,  indicating  a court  or  a garden,  and 
above  it  we  see  the  sky.  In  the  wall  is  set  the  pedimented 
portal  through  which  we  look  into  a far-away  landscape  of 


FIROENZO  DI  LORENZO 
ANNUNCIATION 


ANNUNCIATIONS  293 

grass  and  trees,  and  river  and  city,  and  far-away  mountains. 
Against  or  rather  within  these  harmonies  of  black  and  gray 
and  white,  are  disposed  the  colours  of  the  figures : gray- white, 
as  if  of  velvet,  in  the  angel’s  dress,  with  blue  velvet  for  his 
sleeves;  his  mantle  a rose-red  with  green  lining;  his  wings  of 
that  special  gray  of  feathers,  against  the  gray  of  the  walls. 
And  the  Madonna  is  in  a rose-coloured  gown,  deepening  to 
crimson  in  the  shades,  according  to  the  ancient  Italian 
recipes  for  indication  of  modelling  and  shadow.  Her  mantle 
is  of  a deep  greenish  blue,  certainly  darkened  by  timd,  with 
dark-green  lining.  Her  veil  is  white  and  blends  with  what 
little  is  seen  of  her  fair  hair. 

Throughout,  this  charm  of  colour  blends  with  the  realistic 
representation  of  every  detail.  In  the  same*  way,  the  ap- 
parently average  faces  become  beautiful  through  their  ac- 
curacy and  simplicity  of  rendering.  They  have  the  singular 
quality  of  seeming  only  transcripts  of  some  certain  peoples, 
and  yet  of  being  representations  of  what  is  almost  an  ideal. 
The  entire  picture  has  this  same  connection  of  what  our  mind 
always  insists  upon  as  opposite  qualities.  One  feels  the  pleas- 
ure that  the  painter  must  have  taken  in  his  successful  ren- 
dering of  what  he  already  knew  well  and  what  had  been  done 
before  him,  and  of  the  triumphant  novelties  he  has  intro- 
duced, among  others  the  using  of  the  open  door  or  portico 


£94  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
as  the  keyr  of  his  composition,  and  its  being  really  open,  and 
there  being  through  the  smallest  opening  of  the  picture  a 
great  landscape  behind  it.  This  great  and  novel  mechanical 
triumph,  carried  out  in  patience  and  in  calm,  has  in  itself 
the#  charm  of  something  that  is  not  physical.  It  conveys 
to  the  mind  the  beauty  of  all  open  doors  that  look  into  far 
distant  countries.  We  remember  how  the  old  Florentine 
painter,  Paolo  Uccello,  said,  waking  up  his  wife  at  night  to 
listen:  “What  a sweet  thing  is  this  perspective!”  For  to 

the  men  of  the  day  the  discoveries  of  scientific  perspective 
were  full  of  promises  of  what  could  be  done  in  a future  that 
should  leave  behind  it  the  flat  surfaces  of  older  masters.  All 
the  parts,  then,  of  the  picture  represent  the  new  discoveries 
that  belong  to  the  period.  They  predict,  in  their  way,  what 
others  will  make  of  them;  and  among  these  others,  the  pupils 
of  Fiorenzo  — Pinturicchio  and  Perugino,  and,  through  him, 
even  the  divine  Raphael.  And  Lorenzo  lived  long  enough 
to  outlive  all  of  these  pupils,  and  even  this  very  last,  the  pupil 
of  his  pupils. 

It  might  be  that  the  new  civilization  through  Christianity 
tended  to  develop  certain  national  characteristics  throughout 
the  world.  In  literature  something  of  the  kind  might  be 
demonstrable;  in  art  we  see  it  more  and  more  affirmed.  And 
so,  while  the  idea  and  the  doctrine  reinforce  unity,  the  re- 


ANNUNCIATIONS  295 

ligious  expression  of  various  countries  is  vastly  different  — 
even  when  later,  at  the  moments  of  the  greatest  unity,  on 
the  contrary,  the  makers  of  buildings  and  images  travel  and 
teach  and  influence  in  what  is  apparently  one  direction. 

In  this  most  intimate  expression  of  feeling  — the  rendering 
of  the  character  of  the  Madonna  — the  national  turn  is  most 
strongly  felt.  It  may  really  be  an  expression,  or  it  may  merely 
be  an  attempt,  in  many  cases  limited  by  want  of  power. 
So  again  the  Southern  Madonnas,  those  of  Italy  or  later  of 
Spain,  are  so  triumphantly  above  the  others  that  it  is  difficult 
to  realize  that  the  more  Northern  expression  represents  quite 
as  beautiful  a notion  of  the  Idea.  This  Southern  superiority 
is  so,  notwithstanding  that  the  early  art  of  the  Rhine  or 
France  or  Burgundy  or  Flanders  contains  beautiful  memories 
of  images  and  pictures.  Astonishingly  complete  in  many 
idealizations,  something  has  held  back  the  hand  of  the  North- 
ern artist  in  this  supreme  one  — the  very  ideal  that  his  heart 
must  have  cared  for.  Occasionally,  under  great  emotion, 
or  under  the  foresight  of  sadness  which,  for  instance,  our 
“Lady  of  Flemale”  shows  in  her  picture  at  Frankfort,  the 
drama  elevates  the  type.  But  usually  we  are  left  uncertain 
of  the  full  intention  and  powers  of  the  artist.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  Italian  has  let  himself  go  so  that  even  the  varia- 
tions of  Southern  geography  are  emphasized;  most  especially 


29 6 ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
in  the  Madonna,  whose  type  being  not  singular,  but  common 
to  all  women,  takes  the  form  of  the  place,  the  sentiment  of 
the  local  difference,  even  when  we  feel  almost  sure  that  the 
artist  has  herein  consecrated  his  liking  or  admiration  for 
some  special  person  upon  whose  likeness  he  has  built  this 
momentary  ideal. 

Almost  any  one  of  our  examples  will  show  this,  and  we 
may  take  out  of  Northern  Italy  something  which  is  so  far 
removed  from  the  external  sentiment  of  the  Italy  farther 
down  that  it  makes  almost  another  nationality. 

Whether  or  not  developed  by  the  training  of  a few  artists, 
there  is  in  such  a type  as  those  of  Gaudenzio  Ferrari  a some- 
thing tremulous,  a something  not  fixed,  so  that  the  sense  of 
a possible  appeal,  answered  by  some  change,  carries  the  ideal 
far  away  from  the  set  and  sculptural  mien  under  which  the 
divine  woman  has  been  so  often  represented  by  the  Italian 
artist,  descendant  of  Rome  and  inheritor  of  classical  anti- 
quity. In  the  Madonnas  of  Gaudenzio,  and  of  many  of  the 
more  Northern  painters,  there  is  a continuance  of  present 
life,  so  that  one  might  feel  that  such  a face  might  be  seen  at 
any  moment,  however  choice,  however  exquisite.  And  yet, 
this  is  not  realism  in  the  sense  of  any  transcript  of  ordinary  life 
— any  possible  replacing  of  one  type  by  another  — as  is 
the  case  with  the  artists  whom  we  rightly  call  masters,  great 


GAUDENZIO  FERRARI 
ANNUNCIATION 

BERLIN  MUSEUM 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


ANNUNCIATIONS  297 

or  small.  The  unity  of  such  a picture  as  this  one  is  composed 
of  a multitude  of  details  pervaded  by  a like  refinement,  a 
similar  daintiness,  a purity  of  choice  that  one  might  call 
feminine  were  it  not  that,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  the  admiration 
of  the  man  for  the  finer  delicacies  of  woman.  Elegancies 
of  drapery,  what  our  ancestors  in  criticism  called  “ careful 
choice  of  folds,”  every  detail  of  adornment  is  sunk  into  the 
texture  of  the  work,  not  embroidered  upon  it  nor  added  to 
its  form.  The  angel  kneels  in  a manner  of  conversation,  as 
if  explaining,  according  to  the  text,  more  fully  than  in  a mere 
statement.  He  is  earnest;  he  explains  his  message  as  if  to 
some*  one  who  ought  to  know;  and  his  elegant  hand  half 
explains  and  half  caresses  the  symbolical  lily  that  he  holds 
by  his  knee.  The  very  plant  bends  in  some  subtle  sympathy 
with  the  artist  and  With  his  mien.  So  beautiful  is  the  angel 
with  the  fair  hair  and  the  green  wreath  that  he  seems  younger 
than  Mary,  whose  gentle  face  has  become  serious  with  the 
message.  Her  crossed  hands  tremble  slightly;  she  bends  — 
she  has  already  been  kneeling  — in  the  curve  which  will  be 
relaxation.  And  every  line  of  her  drapery  is  meant  to  tell 
you  this  through  the  mystery  of  ‘Tight  and  dark,”  then  be- 
ginning to  be  triumphantly  established  for  future  art  by 
the  contemporaries  of  Leonardo. 

There  is  a solemn,  beautiful  idea  of  an  Annunciation  — that 


298  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
is  to  say,  the  visit  of  an  angel  to  announce  in  the  legend 
which  repeats  for  the  Virgin  her  earlier  story.  An  angel  ap- 
peared to  her  at  some  moment  when  she  longed  for  the  final 
meeting  with  her  Son,  to  let  her  know  that  the  days  were 
fulfilled  and  that  death  was  present.  The  subject  itself  is 
so  beautiful  that  I had  hoped  to  find  some  painting  of  the 
subject  assuming  a greater  importance  than  the  one  I give, 
which,  however,  is  beautiful  in  its  telling  of  the  story  and 
in  the  charm  that  accompanies  so  often  the  indifferent  monk 
about  whom  clustered  the  legends  of  an  unsteady  life. 

Here,  in  the  picture  at  Florence  known  as  “The  Announcing 
to  the  Virgin  Her  Coming  Decease,”  he  has  told  the  story 
sweetly  and  with  sufficient  dignity.  The  Virgin  is  ready  for 
the  call,  and  the  angel  bends  before  her,  not  looking  at  her, 
as  in  a more  joyous  moment,  but  with  a certain  reticence 
implying  the  human  feeling  for  the  approach  of  death.  For 
even  in  this  case  the  news  is  wrapped  in  sorrow,  at  least  for 
others,  and  in  doubt;  so  that  the  angel  looks  down  upon  the 
floor,  not  raising  his  eyes  to  judge  the  effect  of  his  mission. 
He  gives  the  Virgin  the  lighted  taper  which  is  placed  in  the 
hand  of  the  dying  — in  a contrary  manner  to  other  pictures 
and  to  the  usual  legend  itself,  which  makes  him  present  a 
branch  of  that  palm  that  grows  in  Paradise,  and  which  is 
the  sign  of  future  reward. 


ANNUNCIATIONS  299 

From  what  texts  our  painter  monk  worked  the  story  I am 
not  at  all  certain.  He  may  have  had  a text  to  justify  this 
variation,  which  is  in  itself  most  beautiful,  and,  like  the  whole 
picture,  extremely  human. 

The  many  written  accounts  and  legends  were  not  favoured 
by  the  Church,  and  this  particular  one  was  distinctly  con- 
demned by  Pope  Gelasius  as  early  as  the  fifth  century.  There 
were  heretical  sides  to  these  stories,  a certain  gnostic  temper- 
ament in  them  which  seemed  dangerous;  but,  as  we  know, 
the  Christian  world  was  full  of  gospels  and  stories  of  the 
life  of  Christ.  Some  few  have  come  down  to  us;  the  greater 
mass  has  been  lost  or  destroyed,  and  it  is  one  of  the  curiosities 
of  the  present  moment  that  we  may  find  in  Egypt  some  quan- 
tities of  these  writings  dropped  by  the  Church. 

The  small  quantity  of  paintings  or  similar  representations 
of  the  present  subject  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  Western 
world  does  not  seem  to  be  owing  to  the  condemnation  of  the 
Western  Church.  The  painters  and  sculptors  worked  accord- 
ing to  the  demand  for  pious  materials,  or  for  the  representa- 
tions of  these  stories;  and  these  legends  remained  living  in 
the  conscience  and  memory  of  the  entire  Christian  world. 
It  may  be  worth  while  recalling  more  exactly  this  ancient 
legend  of  what  was  called  the  “ Transit/’  which,  in  forgetful- 
ness of  its  heretical  origin,  was  even  attributed  occasionally 


300  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
to  St.  John  himself.  In  the  book  the  story  goes  on  to  say 
that  as  the  Virgin  wept,  through  desire  to  behold  again  her 
Son,  an  angel  wrapped  in  light  appeared  to  her  and  extended 
to  her  a branch  of  palm,  because  he  had  come  to  tell  her  that 
after  three  days  would  occur  her  death  and  assumption. 
Mary  then  wished  that  the  apostles  might  be  near  to  bury  her, 
hoping  also  that  her  soul,  on  leaving  the  body,  should  not 
encounter  any  evil  spirit.  The  angel  said:  “He  who  carried 
from  Judea  to  Babylon  the  prophet  by  a single  hair  can  bring 
to  thee  the  apostles  now  scattered  through  the  world;  nor 
needs 5 1 thou  fear  the  evil  spirit,  thou  who  hast  crushed  his 
head  and  overturned  his  throne.”  So  speaking,  the  angel 
returned  to  Heaven  in  a wave  of  light,  leaving  the  palm  in 
Mary’s  hands.  At  that  moment,  while  John  was  preaching 
at  Ephesus,  he  was  wrapped  in  a white  cloud  which  placed 
him  before  the  house  of  Mary,  the  Mother  to  whom  his  Master 
from  the  cross  had  given  him  as  a son.  Almost  at  the  same 
moment  the  other  living  apostles  appeared,  and  were  told 
not  to  mourn,  that  people  might  not  be  disturbed.  And  the 
Virgin  lay  down  to  sleep  surrounded,  in  the  manner  of  the 
Church,  by  the  apostles  praying  for  her.  So  we  see 
her  in  many  beautiful  works  either  of  sculpture  or  of 
painting. 

Here,  entering  the  building  from  every  side,  troop  in  the 


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ANNUNCIATIONS  301 

apostles,  conducted,  nay,  pushed,  by  angelic  ministers.  They 
are  still  only  half-waked  — and  pass  in,  partly  dazed,  as 
if  seeking  an  explanation  of  their  sudden  call.  One  under- 
stands and  kneels.  Nothing  could  be  truer  to  the  story; 
and  the  realism  of  the  artist,  his  faithfulness  to  life,  has  here 
one  of  its  most  evident  successes. 


XXII 

THE  MADONNA  — PART  ONE 


The  history  of  painting  is,  for  us,  intimately  connected  with 
religious  use  and  the  story  of  the  Bible.  So  it  is,  in  the  East, 
with  the  story  of  Buddha  and  the  forms  of  belief  and  philos- 
ophy that  bear  his  name.  And  so,  necessarily,  in  classical 
antiquity,  we  have  memories  of  paintings  that  told  the  legends 
and  inculcated  the  mysteries  of  those  older  faiths  which  we 
call  pagan;  pagan  because  they  lasted  longer  among  the 
people,  so  that  even  to-day  Christian  art  of  all  kinds,  even 
the  art  of  words,  is  more  or  less  tinged  by  inextricable  survi- 
vals. The  great  paintings  of  Grecian  art  have  disappeared; 
we  only  guess  what  they  may  have  been,  and,  for  us,  the  art 
of  painting  begins  in  the  Christian  period.  We  know  by 
reconstruction  that  ancient  painting  must  have  invented 
for  itself  a great  part  of  what  we  have  done  for  ourselves. 
But  we  have  very  little  ocular  proof,  and  what  little  we  have 
is  not  of  that  splendour  and  importance  that  would  force  a 
conclusion  upon  every  casual  mind.  Our  art  of  painting, 
then,  is  inextricably  connected  with  the  story  of  our  religion, 
and  most  of  its  masterpieces  result  from  the  demand  for  the 
story  of  religion  in  images. 


805 


306  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 

Hence,  also,  in  this  choice  of  a number  of  masterpieces,  the 
title  of  “The  Madonna ” would  be  sufficient  for  the  whole 
hundred  I have  chosen  as  a limit.  We  can  take  only  a very 
few,  and  select  perhaps  not  the  most  illustrious  — necessarily, 
because  the  theme  is  one  which  has  engaged  so  many  varieties 
of  mind  that  it  may  be  more  profitable  to  see  the  human 
mind  reflected  at  more  diverse  angles. 

It  seems  strange  at  first  that  though  spread  among  nations 
with  whom  the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture  were  every- 
day forms  of  expressions,  we  should  have  almost  no  pictorial 
records  of  early  Christianity.  Still,  apart  from  the  inner 
reasons,  derived  from  the  situation  itself  of  a belief  filtering 
into  innumerable  opposite  ones,  we  can  never  enough  realize 
the  power  of  physical  destruction.  A little  longer  persis- 
tence of  dislike  to  the  mediaeval,  a little  more  spread  to  revo- 
lutionary destruction,  and  a few  more  years  would  have  ob- 
literated such  remnants  of  our  ancestors’  art  as  live  in  frag- 
ments in  the  stained  glass  of  cathedrals  and  churches. 

What,  then,  must  have  been  necessarily  the  destruction 
by  negligence,  by  change  of  fashion,  by  conflicting  doctrines, 
and  by  the  savage  obliteration  of  the  marks  of  Western  civil- 
ization through  barbarian  invasion  and  occupation?  The 
soil  — the  resting-places  and  hiding-places  under  the  earth 
— the  Catacombs  about  Rome  — have  preserved  some 


THE  MADONNA  307 

first  works  made  mostly  for  and  by  the  poor,  the  humble, 
the  proscribed,  whom  the  Gospel  first  addressed.  We  know 
that  there  were  others  above  the  soil,  from  accidental  expres- 
sions here  and  there,  and,  later,  from  the  very  fact  of  a record 
of  their  destruction.  But  what  they  were  we  can  only  guess 
at.  In  the  very  first  that  remain  to  us,  we  see,  as  is  but 
natural,  the  forms  of  older  beliefs  and  mysteries  used  for  the 
Christian  faith.  Orpheus  and  the  Divine  Shepherd  represent 
for  instance,  the  symbolical  meanings  of  the  new  faith.  Of 
the  third  century,  a battered  fresco  in  the  Catacombs  of 
Priscilla  gives  the  first  representation  of  that  Madonna,  the 
Mother  and  Child,  which  will  for  centuries  supply  painting 
with  a central  motive.  Strangely,  too,  the  first  represents 
tion  is  a natural,  a realistic  one  in  its  artistic  meaning,  seen 
with  the  same  direct  but  less  glorious  vision  that  Raphael, 
thirteen  hundred  years  later,  left  for  us  in  the  Rome  of  the 
Renaissance.  The  official  installation  of  Christianity  brought 
— for  us  at  least  who  have  such  few  documents  remaining 
■ — no  more  realistic  representations.  After  that  the  few 
frescoes  and  the  mosaics  of  the  churches  represented  an  offi- 
cial doctrine,  an  idea,  and  not  a being  of  the  human  story. 

Mary  is  seated  in  honour,  veiled  and  mantled  like  a noble 
matron,  but  there  is  no  expression  of  the  mother.  She 
has  no  individual  lineaments  — is  merely  the  conventional 


308  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
symbol  of  Isaiah’s  prophecy.  Like  all  the  other  personages 
of  the  Evangelical  drama,  she  is  but  a shade  about  the  light 
of  Emmanuel. 

In  the  further  peace  and  establishment  of  Christianity, 
Art  is  called  upon  to  render  the  story  of  the  Bible,  and  the 
agitation  of  innumerable  sects  and  the  diffusion  of  legends 
give  more  and  more  occasion  for  subjects  of  pictures  to  the 
workers  in  mosaics  which  almost  alone  survive. 

St.  Augustine  has  told  us  that  he  knew  of  no  portrait  of 
the  Virgin.  But  about  his  time  was  forming  the  tradition 
of  her  having  been  painted  by  St.  Luke,  and  a general  wish 
to  make  more  authentic  all  such  hopes  of  record  has  given  us 
these  so-called  portraits,  as  having  claims  to  reality,  even  so 
far  as  telling  us  of  the  complexion  of  the  Virgin  being  like  the 
colour  of  wheat.  These  Madonnas  of  St.  Luke  vary  — but 
vary  not  much.  Veiled,  they  sit  and  hold  the  Child  upon  the 
knees,  or  else  again  — like  the  paintings  of  the  Catacombs 
— they  lift  the  arms  in  prayer,  and,  in  others  more  dis- 
tinctly, lift  one  hand  as  if  imploring  favours.  Of  course, 
they  resemble  the  earliest  ones  in  the  Catacombs,  but  they 
already  testify  to  the  increase  of  the  respect  for  the  Mother 
of  Christ.  With  the  natural  necessity  of  using  previous 
expressions , which  rules  absolutely  the  ways  of  speech  of 
man,  whether  in  words  or  writing  or  the  arts  of  the  hand,  the 


THE  MADONNA  309 

types  of  many  of  these  early  works  recall,  even  through  their 
unsuccessful  efforts,  the  Junos  and  the  Athenes  just  dis- 
appearing from  common  sight. 

Along  with  the  idea  of  her  being  chosen  and  eject  came, 
naturally,  the  wish  to  make  her  most  beautiful.  The  previous 
types  were  wanting  that  might  conform  with  the  tradition, 
and  the  moment  was  one  of  the  least  suitable  for  any  ade- 
quate expression  in  the  arts.  Rarely,  perhaps,  have  feebler 
efforts  survived.  It  was  not  for  want  of  official  and  personal 
desire  and  patronage  of  the  subject.  Certain  ones  of  these 
representations  were  famous  for  their  influence.  They  had 
turned  the  tide  of  battle  and  protected  cities  and  defied  the 
pagan  barbarian.  Hence  others  were  placed  on  fortress 
walls,  the  masts  of  ships,  on  triumphal  porches.  The  Doc- 
tors of  the  Church,  in  their  definitions  of  doctrine  and  in 
their  opposition  to  heresies,  increased  the  demand  for  such 
representations,  but  at*  the  same  time,  according  to  ordinary 
habit,  the  representations  became  necessarily  more  and 
more  conventional,  the  greater  the  appeal  to  praise.  How 
could  the  hand  of  the  artist  — all  the  more  the*  artist  of  that 
time  — meet  the  demand  of  St.  Basil,  asking,  “ What  flowers 
of  praise  could  we  tress  into  a crown  worthy  of  her?” 

It  is  only  when  the  days  of  theological  controversy  and 
assertion  have  passed  and  the  world  has  begun  to  crystallize 


310  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
into  the  shapes  of  the  Middle  Ages  that  — in  sculpture  at 
least  — the  Madonna  that  we  know  begins  to  exist.  For 
the  Madonna  is  the  glorification  of  Mary,  not  as  a theological 
idea,  but  as  a human  being,  elect,  and  in  charge  of  the  Hope 
of  the  world,  and  still  a type  of  all  that  is  best  in  womanhood. 
The  development  of  the  idea  of  chivalry,  one  of  the  great 
creations  of  the  Middle  Ages,  increases,  of  course,  this  admira- 
tion for  the  ideal  woman  — the  Virgin  of  Virgins,  the  Mother 
of  Mothers. 

Sculpture  first  allows  the  expression;  the  novelty  of  the 
new  architecture  helps  a novel  expression  for  the  new  sculpt- 
ure; and  the  moment  comes  for  the  art  of  painting  — a 
more  slowly  developed  one  — to  have  its  say. 

“The  art  of  painting”  is  a loose  and  uncertain  term  or 
definition.  The  early  Italian  painters,  to  whom  we  go  for 
these  first  embodiments  of  the  Madonna,  draw  and  colour 
— and  above  all,  design;  their  work  is  beyond  modern  praise, 
and  is  absolutely  fit  for  what  it  has  to  say;  but  the  art  of 
painting,  that  is  to  say,  the  representation  of  all  that  we  see 
in  light  and  shade,  and  space  and  air,  had  not  yet  been  rein- 
vented. 

Duccio,  Cimabue,  and  Giotto  were  to  begin  the  great  years 
of  painting  for  Italy,  and  they  began  with  the  good  omen  of 
the  Madonna.  But  there  still  lingered  that  respectful  fear 


GIOTTO  DI  BONDONE 
MADONNA  OF  THE  ANNUNCIATION 

ARENA  CHAPEL,  PADUA 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ALINARI 


THE  MADONNA  311 

which  attacks  the  artist  in  presence  of  a great  ideal  — that 
fear  which  attacked  even  the  scientific  mind  of  Leonardo  Da 
Vinci  and  made  his  hand  — skilful  beyond  all  others  — hesi- 
tate when  he  began  to  paint  the  face  of  the  Christ  in  the 
great  picture  of  the  Last  Supper. 

Giotto  begins  the  first  natural  homage  to  the  newer  Ma- 
donna in  the  chaplet  of  his  paintings  in  the  little  Arena 
Chapel  at  Padua.  It  is  true  that  the  Virgin  is  represented 
in  some  episode  of  the  story  of  the  Gospels,  and  not  alone, 
except  in  the  moment  of  the  Annunciation.  But  a special 
type  has  been  selected  by  him  — a type  reminding  the  more 
modern  eye  of  the  classical  tradition  which  the  first  Italian 
sculptors,  just  before,  and  just  then,  had  evolved  from  the 
impressions  of  the  antique. 

There  is  an  element  of  strength  — the  majesty  of  both  the 
antique  and  mediaeval  art  — in  these  grand  figures,  which, 
nevertheless,  are  not  princely  or  refined,  but  are  almost  near 
the  sense  of  the  common  people.  Natural  simplicity  and 
humility  belong  also  to  these  figures,  as  they  pass  from  youth 
to  age  — to  joys  and  griefs.  Their  wonderful  common-sense, 
if  I may  so  say,  balances  the  over-aesthetic  descriptions  of 
the  Madonna  in  the  poems  written  in  her  honour  by  the  last 
minstrels  of  Southern  Europe.  But  the  smile  of  the  Madonna 
has  entered  art.  One  would  wish  to  know  what  Dante  might 


312  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
have  said  to  these  solemn  but  earthly  representations  — he 
who  must  have  seen  them,  and  he  who  has  told  us  about  Gi- 
otto, as  he  has  also  told  us  of  his  having  “seen  up  there  above 
at  their  plays  and  songs,  a beauty  smile  so  that  joy  is  in  the 
eyes  of  all  the  other  saints.”  Henceforth,  there  will  be  a 
struggle,  or  rather  desire  on  the  part  of  every  painter,  to 
suggest  that  “beauty,”  and  that  “smile.”  With  each  artist 
the  memories  of  home-life,  of  the  goodness  and  sweetness  of 
mother  and  sister  and  daughter,  will  be  the  types  of  their 
painted  poems.  There  will  be  failures,  and  the  first  painters 
of  Flanders  will  be  more  successful  in  the  Catherines  and 
Barbaras  than  in  the  type  of  their  Mary  — partly,  perhaps, 
from  the  still  haunting  fear  of  anything  that  might  detract 
from  the  virginal  conception  — and  certainly  — from  the 
realistic  copying  of  their  models;  for  they  had  not  behind 
them  that  tradition  of  beauty,  sometimes  indeterminate 
but  existing  in  the  memories  of  the  race,  which  allowed  the 
Italian  to  build  a series  of  types  of  many  gradations  of  manners 
of  beauty  and  of  sweetness. 

A larger  life,  as  it  were,  pervades  the  Italian  work;  the 
northern  painters,  narrowed  within  some  smaller  circle  of 
actual  models,  have  represented  types  with  a narrower  pos- 
sibility; yet,  behind  certain  ugliness  of  form,  the  reverent  and 
sympathetic  eye  can  see  the  meaning,  and  be  pleased  at  least 


FRA  ANGELICO  DA  FIESOLE 
MADONNA  OF  THE  STAR 

RELIQUARY  OF  SANTA  MARIA  NOVELLA,  NOW  IN  SAN  MARCO,  FLORENCE 


FRA  FILIPPO  LIPPI 
MADONNA  AND  CHILD 

PITTI  GALLERY 


THE  MADONNA  313 

with  the  purity  and  detachment  expressed  by  these  more 
cloistered  minds. 

For  a time,  Italian  painting  does  not  represent  as  much 
arrested  development  as  Italian  sculpture,  wherein  the  Ma- 
donna and  the  other  saints  live  as  it  were,  the  ordinary 
life  known  to  the  artist,  even  if  they  be  the  blessed  of  Paradise. 
And  the  Madonna  comes  to  be  expressed  in  art,  as  what  she 
is  in  prayer,  a sort  of  manner  of  friend,  to  whom  one  confides 
one’s  secrets  — who  is  pleased  with  one’s  joys  and  is  pitiful 
to  one’s  sorrows.  The  caresses  given  to  the  Child  are  the 
expression  of  the  kind  good-will  of  this  chosen  Saint,  contin- 
uing her  relation  with  the  world  in  the  Communion  the  Church 
speaks  of.  Both  sculptures  and  paintings  help  to  give  com- 
fort or  joy  to  life. 

Occasionally,  with  the  artists,  a more  solemn  view  of  the 
subject  is  felt.  In  the  sculptures  of  Donatello,  the  mother 
often  feels  the  impending  tragedy.  The  more  of  a baby, 
the  more  thoughtless  is  the  Divine  Child,  the  more  His  mo- 
tions are  well-known  gestures  of  the  nursery;  the  more  help- 
less He  is,  the  more  solemn  is  the  expression  of  the  mother. 
And,  later  still,  in  the  final  choice  of  Michael  Angelo,  the 
prophetess  preached  by  the  great  Dominican,  Savonarola, 
is  constructed  from  the  types  that  the  artist  alone  discerned 
in  the  people  about  him.  Apart  from  these,  the  actual  child 


314  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  Dominican  teaching,  the  good  Friar  Angelico,  paints  with 
perhaps  the  Flemish  hope,  to  give  us  the  Virgin  of  Virgins; 
clothed  in  a mantle  of  stars,  with  the  beauty  and  gesture  of 
the  young  girl,  expressive  of  the  white  soul  within. 

A wide  space  again  separates  other  worshippers  of  beauty 
— Botticelli  and  Lippi,  and  their  companions,  from  the 
blessed  monk,  Angelico,  whose  wish  and  whose  expression 
is  single.  Theirs  are  not  the  Madonnas  of  the  people,  nor 
of  the  monk  nor  the  devotee.  Venice,  with  Bellini,  follows 
in  the  dream  of  personal  beauty  the  idea  of  a noble  charac- 
ter in  the  healthy  body  of  the  types  of  the  women  of  the  land. 
The  mother  again  becomes  the  theme,  and,  through  all  the 
varieties  of  personal  sentiment,  continues,  for  a century, 
in  the  more  and  more  triumphant  praises  of  Titian  and 
Veronese.  While  the  very  great  masters  — Leonardo,  Cor- 
reggio, Raphael  — are  each  developing*  some  form  of  type 
for  the  beauty  of  their  Madonnas,  the  painters  of  Northern 
Italy  express,  more  and  more  intimately,  the  love  of  some 
special  personal  choice  of  their  own.  The  delight  in  the  charm 
of  sweet  women,  the  expression  of  sensitiveness  to  that 
charm  is  so  specially  marked  with  them  as  almost  to  give 
their  works  a value  beyond  their  abundant  sesthetic  value. 
And  that,  too,  though  they  begin  with  an  influence  so  doubt- 
ful, so  strange  and  mysterious,  that  a something  almost  con- 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 
MADONNA,  CHILD  AND  ST.  ANNE 


THE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


THE  MADONNA  315 

trary  still  leaves  us  in  hesitation.  The  complicated  mind 
of  Leonardo  has  modelled  the  images  of  the  Madonna  with 
such  an  assertion  of  meaning  and  knowledge  that  works 
more  tender  — more  full  of  the  ordinary  genius  of  humanity 
— become  weak  and  momentary  before  this  rebuilding  of 
classical  antiquity.  With  him  we  feel  a strong  will  guiding 
an  accomplished  hand  to  make  a new  creation,  something 
that  shall  have  all  the  meaning  previously  accumulated, 
which  shall  have  passed,  as  it  were,  through  the  alembic, 
the  scientific  analysis  of  the  reasons  for  the  realization  of 
the  form  of  an  idea.  The  ineffably  sweet  smile  — that  smile 
of  beauty  first  mentioned  by  Dante  - — trembles  upon  a type 
of  face  capable  of  deep  thought  and  high  disdain.  The  ten- 
derness, not  unmingled  with  pity,  seems  to  be  perhaps  a 
momentary  expression  brought  out  by  the  perfect  fitness  of 
such  expressions  for  such  a moment.  So  that  the  mind  of 
the  great  man  (who  happened  also  to  be  a great  artist) 
sends  us  the  same  complicated  message  that  is  given  by  the 
story  of  his  life.  And,  in  the  same  way,  that  unfinished  life, 
begun  on  too  great  a scale,  leaves  us  in  doubt  as  to  how  far 
his  own  hand  has  carried  out  the  paintings  that  bear  his  name, 
and  how  far  his  more  than  docile  pupils  and  followers  have 
carried  out  the  logical  instructions  given  to  them  by  a man 
who  tired  of  his  endless  work. 


XXIII 

THE  MADONNA  — PART  TWO 


With  Botticelli,  the  culture  of  Florence,  the  anxieties  of 
aesthetics,  surround  the  Madonna;  the  feast  of  colours,  and 
flowers  and  angels  sing  her  praise,  appealing  to  us  to  admire 
also  this  most  exquisite  of  beings.  But  the  melancholy, 
the  gentle  sadness,  born  of  regrets  and  of  perceptions  beyond 
the  moment,  give  to  the  expression  of  the  Virgins  of  Botti- 
celli a pensive  meaning  which  suggests  again  the  prophetic 
mother’s  soul. 

Botticelli’s  painting  known  as  the  “Madonna  of  the 
Magnificat”  is  to  many  the  most  complete  of  the  many 
admirations  of  woman’s  divine  elegance  which  the  Florentine 
painter  expressed  in  his  varying  career. 

He  is  a pagan,  as  we  foolishly  use  the  term,  that  is  to  say, 
he  is  delighted  with  the  natural  beauties  of  everything  and 
has  also  the  delight  of  culture  and  refinement  which  in  con- 
necting but  different  ways  direct  both  the  course  of  the  artist 
and  of  the  lover  of  social  life.  Botticelli’s  works  connect 
delightfully  with  the  amusements  of  social  Florence;  as  later 
touched  by  lofty  thought  they  echo  something  even  of  the 
evangelical  protests  of  Savonarola.  Rarely,  however,  has 

319 


320  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
such  a severity  clouded  the  sweetness  of  his  sight.  Occa- 
sionally the  faces  of  a few  images  of  the  Virgin  tell  some- 
thing of  a more  troubled  thought.  In  one  of  the  last  of  his 
paintings,  the  little  “Nativity,”  in  the  National  Gallery, 
he  had  shaken  off  any  sadness  of  expression,  and  the  profile 
of  the  kneeling  mother  is  not  so  far  from  the  image  we  have 
here  in  the  Madonna  of  the  “Magnificat.”  The  “Nativity,” 
however,  is  a dream  of  joy  in  Heaven  and  upon  earth  for  the 
new  birth;  and  still  has  written  upon  it:  “I  painted  this 
picture  during  the  confusion  of  Italy  in  the  year  1500,  in 
the  time  when  the  devil  was  let  loose.  A space  of  three  and 
one-half  years.”  This,  of  course,  refers  to  the  martyrdom 
of  his  friend  Savonarola. 

The  paganism  to  which  I referred  has  rightly  reappeared 
in  the  innocence  of  his  delight  in  beauty.  And  this  delight 
nowise  takes  away  from  the  deep  feeling  for  all  the  higher 
and  nobler  things,  nor  from  sympathy  with  the  tenderness 
of  the  gospel  teaching.  Hence,  also,  we  have  along  with 
his  paintings  the  wonderful  series  of  his  drawings  for  Dante’s 
Divine  Poem.  And  Botticelli  seems  entitled  to  this  success 
in  the  interpretation  of  his  beloved  poet,  the  austere  Floren- 
tine, who  also  began  life  in  a joyous  mood  of  pleasure.  There, 
certainly,  in  the  eternal  contemplation  of  what  he  proposed 
to  do  to  represent  Beatrix  more  fully  than  in  these  sketches, 


SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 
MADONNA  OF  THE  MAGNIFICAT 

THE  LOUVRE 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


SANDRO  BOTTICELLI 

NATIVITY  (ADORATION  OF  THE  SHEPHERDS) 

NATIONAL  GALLERY,  LONDON 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


. 


■ 


THE  MADONNA  321 

the  painter  must  have  dwelt  upon  the  poet’s  words:  how  “a 
beauty  smiled  so  that  the  joy  was  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  saints.” 
Here  it  is  again  given  in  the  Madonna  of  Florence.  Intelli- 
gence, refinement,  customary  high  feeling  and  thought  — 
the  whole  poetry  of  culture  is  here  given  with  an  expression 
of  humility,  the  “low  estate  of  His  handmaiden,”  which  is 
not  contradictory.  It  is  expressed  even  in  the  bend  of  the 
head  and  the  movement  of  the  arm  which  is  extended  to  write 
the  words  of  the  Magnificat,  the  song  of  Mary  — “My  soul 
doth  magnify  the  Lord,  and  my  spirit  hath  rejoiced  in  God 
my  Saviour.  For  He  hath  regarded  the  low  estate  of  His 
handmaiden:  for,  behold,  from  henceforth  all  generations 
shall  call  me  blessed.” 

Above  the  Blessed  Virgin’s  head  two  angels  hold  the  crown 
that  represents  her  prophecy,  the  claim  upon  all  generations 
henceforth.  Below  the  crown  the  golden  hair  of  the  Virgin 
is  partly  covered  by  a transparent  veil,  so  delicately  arranged 
that  one  is  reminded  of  the  furtherest  elegancies  of  fashion 
in  this  most  serious  religious  poem.  But  nothing  is  too 
exquisite  for  the  worship  of  the  idea  of  the  Madonna;  flowers 
and  landscape  and  sky  all  praise  her,  and  the  very  angels  that 
accompany  her  and  take  care  of  her  and  the  Child  are  spe- 
cially created  out  of  the  artist’s  culture  to  adorn  her  as  well 
as  serve  her. 


322  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 

An  external  resemblance,  obscurely  felt,  unites  the  works 
we  are  now  thinking  of  with  others  at  the  other  pole  of  thought. 
Correggio  also  developed  for  himself  many  of  the  means 
of  art  which  Leonardo  worked  for  intensely.  He,  too,  bathes 
his  picture-world  in  light  and  shade,  from  which  emerge 
the  points  which  he  wishes  us  to  see  most.  He  also  pursues 
the  gradation  and  the  rounding  of  the  modelling  of  various 
parts  of  his  picture.  With  him,  too,  the  “ smile  of  beauty” 
lights  the  faces  of  Mother  and  Child,  and  possible  attendant. 
Not  always,  but  usually,  and  so  as  to  be  his  mark,  the  smile 
of  sweetness  is  that  of  the  character.  The  exquisite  beings 
he  loves  to  make  are  compacted  of  good-will  and  tenderness. 
Behind  their  kindly  presence  there  is  no  suspicion  of  other 
habits,  and  their  intellect  is,  as  it  were,  not  put  in  question; 
even  in  his  picture  of  the  martyrs  accepting  death  they  seem 
not  to  be  troubled  by  injustice  or  the  anxiety  of  fate,  but  to 
be  carried  on  in  the  same  stream  of  good-will  and  love  and 
hope  upon  which  they  have  floated  to  the  end. 

The  ancient  legends  which  depicted  Correggio’s  life  as  one 
of  bitter  struggles  with  poverty  and  want  of  appreciation 
are  not,  therefore,  borne  out  by  his  painting.  Nowhere, 
indeed,  is  there  a sign  of  sorrow.  Even  in  the  few  representa- 
tions of  the  Bible  story  which  need  a statement  of  pain  or 
distress  the  emotions  are  almost  understated,  and  death 


THE  MADONNA  323 

itself  has  a look  of  disturbed  sleep.  Hence,  we  have  become 
more  pleased  to  understand  that  he  was  not  unhappy,  that 
he  lived  a quiet,  industrious  life,  though  a short  one,  filled, 
however,  with  very  much  work.  Absolute  appreciation  he 
could  not  have  more  than  most  others,  and  the  very  fact  of 
his  precocious  development  must  have  given  cause  for  mis- 
trust on  the  part  of  many  of  his  employers.  But  he  was 
the  product  of  his  time  as  much  as  such  a man  can  be:  perhaps 
even  more  so  than  many  other  great  artists;  and  that  also 
contributed  to  a certain  easy  acceptance  of  his  work,  so  that 
later  centuries  were  astonished  at  the  name  and  fame  of 
Correggio  not  having  affected  the  whole  of  Italy  in  his  day. 

Perhaps,  indeed,  some  part  of  his  momentary  success  may 
have  dulled  the  echo  of  his  name.  The  appreciation  of  his 
work  must  have  been  confined  to  the  elegant  court  of  his 
princes,  a court  of  much  intellectual  and  artistic  culture; 
indeed,  in  that  day  of  extraordinary  pursuit  of  culture,  any 
of  the  names  that  connect  with  the  social  centre  represent 
the  very  poetry  of  the  moment. 

Near  to  him  was  the  most  distinguished  Veronica  Gam- 
bara,  who  married  into  the  house  of  Correggio,  the  lords  of  the 
little  town  to  which  our  artist  belonged.  His  own  name  was 
Allegri,  and  in  an  amiable  and  far  from  tragic  manner  it 
amused  him  sometimes  to  sign  himself  Laetus,  a manner  of 


324  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
Latin  for  Allegro  the  joyful,  perhaps  thus  meeting  half  way 
the  artificial  elegancies  of  a time  that  delighted  in  special 
society  titles  and  names,  so  that  within  these  coteries  one 
could  refer  to  friends  and  acquaintances  without  entangling 
them  with  their  outside  names,  and  also  thereby  evade 
the  awful  questions  of  etiquette. 

Veronica  is  one  of  the*  types  of  the  woman  of  culture  of 
the  moment.  She  was  visited  by  such  admirers  as  Ariosto 
and  Bembo  and  many  learned  men  less  remembered  to-day; 
and  even  by  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  And  Master  Ludovico 
Ariosto  sings  how  “charming  to  Apollo  was  the  beautiful 
Aonian  choir,”  of  which  she  was  one.  Vittoria  Colonna  and 
Bernardo  Tasso  spoke  of  her  as  “the  glory  of  the  feminine 
sex,”  and,  among  others,  Dolci,  Bembo,  and  Varchi  joined 
in  her  praises.  The  Emperor  Charles  V,  addressing  her, 
told  her  that  she  was  dear  to  him  for  “her  virtue  and  renown.” 
This  lady  was  a patroness  of  our  artist,  as  well  as  her  friend 
and  acquaintance,  the  much  more  illustrious,  though  probably 
less  intellectual,  Isabella  d’Este,  the  Duchess  of  Mantua, 
known  to  us  especially  to-day  by  her  patronage  of  art.  In 
one  of  her  letters  to  Veronica  she  refers  to  “our  master 
Antonio,”  whom  we  now  remember  only  as  Correggio.  These 
facts  I bring  together  because  they  may  help  to  explain  the 
extraordinary  refinement  from  the  very  beginning,  or  what 


MADONNA  AND  CHILD,  SCULPTURE 

COLLECTION  OF  MRS.  J.  L.  GARDNER,  BOSTON 
COPYRIGHT  1903,  BY  T.  E.  MARR 


ANTONIO  ALLEGRI  DA  CORREGGIO 
THE  VIRGIN  ADORING  THE  INFANT  CHRIST 

UFFIZI  GALLERY 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


THE  MADONNA  325 

we  take  to  be  the  beginning,  of  Correggio’s  work:  a refinement 
so  extraordinary  as  to  seem  feminine,  for  we  have  no  words 
to  express  such  a rare  sensitiveness  to  sweetness  and 
innocence. 

We  might  feel  sure  that  the  images  of  the  Madonna  that 
Correggio  would  be  called  upon  to  execute  would  reflect  his 
character,  and  it  is  even  extraordinary  that  there  are  not 
more  examples.  But  his  fife  was  a short  one,  and  we  cannot 
too  often  repeat  that  the  artists  of  that  period  were  men  who 
were  called  upon  to  fill  orders,  to  execute  commissions  for  the 
practical  needs  of  the  pious  or  the  powerful.  And  then, 
again,  which  also  should  be  always  in  our  minds,  many  of 
the  great  paintings  of  Correggio  are  to-day  only  partly  his. 
They  have  been  cleaned  and  repainted  to  such  an  extent  that 
in  one  of  the  most  famous  ones  in  Dresden,  called  “The 
Madonna  with  St.  Francis,”  various  angels  now  visible  had 
once  been  covered  with  the  paint  of  an  energetic  restorer. 
All  this  we  know  definitely,  even  to  the  names  and  reputa- 
tions of  the  perpetrators.  And  it  is  an  intellectual  dilemma 
to  disengage  from  the  work  of  art  so  treated  what  it  may  be 
that  still  carries  to  us  the  speech  of  the  artist,  when  a very 
great  part  of  it  and  most  of  its  delicacy  of  expression  have 
been  destroyed. 

Hence,  such  a picture  as  the  one  I give  here  has  been  criti- 


326  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
cised  for  deficiencies  which  it  may  not  have  had  in  its  earlier 
days.  But  its  appearance  through  the  photograph  is  sufficient 
to  represent,  fairly,  the  special  charm  of  Correggio.  It  is  not, 
perhaps,  the  most  triumphant  of  his  types  of  the  Madonna. 
He  pursued  some  form  of  evolution  of  his  ideal,  and  we  see 
these  stages  of  intellectual  and  emotional  development 
embodied  in  separate  paintings.  They  may  be  even  repre- 
sentations of  the  home  life  of  the  very  people  around  him. 

The  “Virgin  Adoring  the  Infant  Christ/5  which  has  been 
in  Florence  since  1617,  shows  us  the  Virgin  kneeling  on  the 
step  of  the  deserted  temple,  which  typified  so  much  to  the 
painters  of  that  day,  and  earlier.  She  raises  her  hands  with 
a gesture  of  delight  over  the  Babe  who  lies  before  her  on  a 
linen  cloth  spread  over  a bundle  of  straw.  It  is  here,  in  this 
special  gesture  of  the  mother,  in  the  droop  of  the  head,  in  a 
few  details  of  the  face,  that  the  novelty  of  the  meaning  occurs; 
in  that  even  more  than  the  exquisite  realism  of  the  Child  lifting 
its  helpless  hands  to  its  mother.  For  the  rest,  what  Hogarth 
might  have  called  the  “ Correggiosity  of  Correggio/5  we  are 
also  thankful.  We  feel  the  intimacy  of  the  story  from  the 
wide  landscape  behind,  dreaming  in  some  curious  light  which 
may  be  that  of  morning.  The  Correggio  light  falls  upon  the 
Madonna’s  head  and  shoulders  and  her  hands  and  the  Babe, 
so  as  to  be  almost  reflected  from  the  Child  and  the  place  He 


THE  MADONNA  327 

lies  on.  And  we  may  be  seeing  in  this  the  beginning  of  what 
later  Correggio  will  do,  when  he  makes  the  light  proceed 
from  the  body  of  the  Child.  Of  course,  in  such  a consum- 
mate master  as  our  artist  the  whole  picture  is  a manner  of 
helping  the  story.  The  bend  of  the  head  is  carried  to  the 
plinth  of  the  column  on  which  trickles  the  same  curious  light. 
The  drapery,  the  far-off  wall,  carry  out  still  farther  the  bend 
of  delighted  admiration. 

The  scheme  of  our  study  of  certain  paintings  has  brought 
us  at  times  very  close  to  sculpture,  which  might  have  served 
to  explain  at  least  historical  development.  A reminiscence 
of  the  gesture  and  meaning  of  the  painting  of  Correggio, 
“The  Virgin  Adoring  the  Infant  Christ/’  induces  me  to  include 
in  our  series  that  wonderful  group  of  the  same  subject  which 
is  one  of  the  treasures  of  Mrs.  John  Lowell  Gardner.  Its 
origin  is  a little  mysterious,  and  for  the  present  I have  not 
heard  of  any  certainty  of  attribution.  The  statues  of  the 
group  are  painted,  and  this,  which  adds  in  the  reality  a still 
greater  charm  of  sentiment,  disappears  largely  in  the  photo- 
graph, and  even  brings  in  a few  spottings. 

The  group  is  beautiful  in  the  separate  figures ; but  even  were 
it  less  intensely  human  in  embodiment,  the  idea  of  the  subject 
is  sufficient  to  make  it  singular  and  alone  among  works  of 
art.  I know  of  no  similar  image  carved  or  painted  or  drawn 


328  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
that  gives  the  mutual  love  and  admiration  of  two  beings  one 
for  the  other. 

The  mother  prays  with  the  meaning  that  we  expect,  but 
she  is  delighted  in  the  Child  for  itself,  and  her  hands  miss 
their  pressure  from  the  intensity  of  this  even  habitual  emotion. 
The  Babe  is  lost  in  admiration  of  His  mother,  the  fountain 
of  all  joy  and  help.  I hesitate  at  a description  when  the  im- 
age is  there  to  show  the  expression  of  face  and  hands  and  the 
dignity  of  the  body  upon  the  little  legs,  as  yet  unaccustomed 
to  carry  weight.  It  is  safer  perhaps  to  speak  of  the  face 
of  the  Madonna,  to  make  out  that  though  she  may  have  been 
found  in  Rome,  she  is  perhaps  North  Italian.  Somewhat  of 
sadness  touches,  perhaps,  the  eyes  and  the  lips,  but  that  is 
not  apart  from  the  fate  of  any  mother.  And  the  Madonna 
here  is  perhaps,  with  all  her  elegance,  nearer  the  woman  not  so 
different  from  all  others.  It  is  pleasant  to  close  upon  this 
so  maternal  an  image,  so  much  the  ideal  picture  of  the  Mother 
and  Child. 


XXIV 

THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS— PART  ONE 


Whoever  has  seen  the  portrait  in  crayon  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  a mere  study,  if  one  can  so  speak  of  any  work  by  such 
a man,  has  carried  away  an  impression  of  sadness  as  great 
as  any  ever  represented.  There  is  no  trace  of  unkindli- 
ness; there  is  under  the  shaded  eye  a taking-in  of  things  by 
a judge  and  observer;  there  are  long  transverse  wrinkles  on 
the  forehead,  and  the  natural  fold  below,  which  joins  the 
eyes  together  in  older  people;  the  downward  lines  round  the 
mouth  are  not  so  much  marked,  but  the  mouth  itself  implies 
a sad  weariness  and  resignation  that  bring  up  his  last  words, 
words  so  easily  misunderstood  by  those  who  have  not  gone 
through  it.  As  King  Francis  entered  to  inquire  after  him, 
seated  on  his  bed  and  speaking  of  Tiis  illness,  he  said  how  he  had 
“off ended  God  and  man  in  this  world  by  not  having  worked 
enough  in  art  as  he  should  have  done.”  And  yet  he  has  said 
that  any  life  well  filled  was  long  enough,  and  who  more  than 
he  has  ever  worked,  and  worked  over  as  large  a space  of  human 
interest?  But  he  was  right  in  this,  that  he  really  had  left 
an  unfinished  life,  for  no  one  since  has  been  able  to  live  on 
his  scale  of  interest  in  every  possible  subject  in  every  mode 

831 


332  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  life.  It  is  only  to-day  that  we  know  how  many  new 
observations,  how  many  discoveries  for  the  future,  the  man 
must  have  made,  the  fragments  of  whose  notes  fill  big  vol- 
umes and  pass  through  painting,  stereometry,  anatomy 
and  the  eye,  and  (what  to-day  interests  us)  the  mechanism 
of  the  flight  of  birds.  Of  his  music,  of  his  poems,  of  his 
wonderful  physical  strength,  of  his  beauty,  of  his  voice,  of 
his  personal  charm,  we  have  little  more  than  mention.  The 
man  with  that  face,  the  face  of  a solitary  monk,  had  lived  in 
courts  and  camps,  had  seen  all  that  was  beautiful  in  the 
world  in  more  ways  than  fall  to  most  men;  had  been 
admired  and  loved;  and  this  is  his  face  before  the  repose 
of  death. 

Of  course  many  of  us  can  understand  the  sense  of  the  empti- 
ness of  things  which  is  offered  to  us  as  we  close  the  book, 
but  here  is  a case  of  one  of  the  fullest  of  lives  passed  through 
by  a man  capable  of  seeing  what  he  had  done,  and  making 
at  the  end  the  statement  that  I have  quoted. 

We  have  many  portraits  of  great  artists,  and  few,  I should 
almost  say  almost  none,  express  the  sadness  of  disillusion. 
The  face  of  Delacroix  in  his  portrait  painted  by  himself  as 
still  a young  man,  has  something  of  the  bitter  mouth,  “La 
bouche  amere,”  of  Leonardo,  though  he  is  a young  man  and 
has  not  yet  felt,  to  our  knowledge,  the  future  that  he  had 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI 
PENCIL  PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF 

ACADEMY,  VENICE 


REMBRANDT  VAN  RIJN 
PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF  (1658) 

COLLECTION  OP  H.  C.  FRICK,  NEW  YORK 


TITIAN  (VECELLI  TIZIANO) 
PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF 

BERLIN  MUSEUM 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  HANFSTAENGL 


MICHELANGELO  BUONARETTI 
PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF 

CAPITOL  MUSEUM,  ROME 


THE  SADNESS  OF^CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  333 
to  carry.  The  portrait  is  in  the  Louvre  and  is  known 
by  the  cheerful  name  of  “The  Man  with  the  Green 
Waistcoat.” 

Rembrandt  has,  as  we  know,  suffered  in  the  reality  of  life. 
He  has  become  poor  after  wealth;  he  has  been  plundered  and 
left  gradually  alone  in  the  world.  We  have  his  portrait 
at  the  end,  by  himself,  several  indeed,  and  the  mark,  perhaps 
the  natural  doubt  of  a man  who  might  begin  to  feel  unable 
to  carryout  the  visions  of  his  mind;  but  there  is  no  look  of 
sadness  or  disappointment;  there  is  the  same  observing  eye 
that  follows  us  through  his  hundreds  of  records  of  himself, 
whether  he  represents  himself  in  his  own  personality  or  in  that 
of  the  very  many  others  whose  names  accompany  the 
pictures. 

Here  comes  a still  more  curious  contradiction.  We  have 
portraits  of  Titian  by  himself.  Titian  the  favourite  of  For- 
tune, the  great  gentleman,  with  a physical  contexture  that 
leaves  him  painting  within  a year  of  his  one  hundredth  anni- 
versary. In  one  or  two  of  his  latter  portraits,  certainly  the 
one  in  profile,  there  is  something  which  is  sadness  the  more 
one  looks  at  it,  and  we  know  the  difference;  he  has  painted 
too  many  of  the  great  and  small  of  this  world  for  us  not  to  have 
been  trained  in  our  own  perception. 

Is  this  the  natural  sequence  of  life?  Is  it  the  parental 


334  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
reminiscence  of  an  unworthy  son?  Otherwise  his  life  closes 
in  honour  and  peace  and  wealth. 

We  might  expect  that  the  portrait  of  Michael  Angelo  the 
sad,  the  weary,  the  solitary  worker,  jealous,  disdainful, 
religious  in  an  intimate  and  persistent  manner,  might  show 
some  strong,  sad  mark  of  all  this. 

The  other  one  in  outline,  engraved,  is  more  wilfully  decided 
by  the  great  artist  who  made  it,  while  this  one  is  evidently 
accidental  and  in  that  way  trustworthy.  The  broken  nose, 
the  result  of  the  blow  of  the  sculptor  Torregiani  in  a boys’ 
quarrel,  does  not  show  very  distinctly,  but  there  is  enough 
to  increase  the  effect  of  the  two  eyes  turned  outward.  The 
man  dreams  — he  is  not  sad  from  disappointment  — he  is 
thinking  of  other  things  — whatever  they  may  be.  And  it 
is  this  sudden  waking  up  of  the  absent-minded  which  has 
made  our  painter  say  tart  things  and  sometimes  cruel  things. 
I may  be  wrong,  but  here  we  have  the  actual  sight  of  Buo- 
narroti. He  is  not  yet  old,  he  who  lived  long.  The  time 
has  not  yet  come  when  he  will  write:  “Alas!  for  thinking  of 
the  [days  that  have  run  past  — Alas ! out  of  so  many  I find 
none  that  have  been  really  mine.  Deceptive  desire  and  empty 
life,  loving,  hating,  burning,  and  sighing  — for  no  mortal 
feeling  is  any  more  new  to  me  — have  held  me,  now  I know 
it,  always  distant  from  the  true  and  the  good.  Around  me 


THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  335 
now  the  shades  increase  — the  sun  conies  less  — and  I am 


near  to  fall,  ill  and  outworn.”* 

Only  a very  sweet  and  kindly  nature  could  have  written 
so  sadly  — and  it  is  that  I see  in  the  face  before  us. 

The  portrait  of  Bonasone,  the  engraving  in  profile,  when 
Michael  is  seventy-two  years  old,  carries  out  my  view  I 
think.  The  face  is  wrinkled,  thought  has  marked  it  and  soli- 
tary concentration.  But  there  seems  to  be  even  a smile  on 
the  cheek,  as  if  he  sought  peace,  as  did  Dante  coming  to  the 
convent  door. 


* Ohime!  — ohime!  par  pensando 
Angli  anni  corsi  — lasso!  non  vitroro 
Fra  tanti,  uno  che  sia  atato  mio. 

Le  pallace  pensieri  e il  van  desio  — 

Che  o gui  affetto  mortal  non  me  piv  nuevo  — 
M’hanno  tenuto  ora  lo  conosco  e provo, 

E d’  al  vero  e d’  al  ben  sempre  remote 
Cresceni  ogner  pia  l’ombra  — il  sol  vien  mance 
E son  presso  a cadere  enformo  e stance. 


* 

XXV 


THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS— PART  TWO 


In  our  last  consideration  of  portraits  we  saw  momentary 
records;  they  were  subconscious  statements;  they  were  the 
faces  one  sees  in  the  glass,  not  those  put  on  to  meet  the  world, 
put  on  to  meet  the  usually  necessary  work-a-day  mask.  But 
rare  are  the  portraits  in  which  the  subject,  the  person  repre- 
sented, insists  that  his  sorrow  or  his  sadness  or  his  discount  of 
life  should  be  part  of  the  statement.  We  have,  however, 
a painter  for  whom  seems  to  have  been  reserved  a specialty 
of  indicating  for  a few  persons  the  fact  that  melancholy, 
sorrow,  or  regret  is  either  their  part  in  life,  or  marks  that 
special  moment.  This  is  Lorenzo  Lotto,  one  of  the  most 
exquisite  of  painters,  who  from  that  very  fact  has  been  much 
neglected  until  within  a short  number  of  years.  It  is  true 
that  our  facilities  of  travel  have  continuously  made  the 
knowledge  of  Italian  work  of  any  past  more  easily  familiar. 
Let  us  make  a note  of  the  painter’s  date  and  surroundings 
and  somewhat  of  his  story,  which  may  or  may  not  explain 
this  peculiar  association.  He  was  born  about  1480  in  the 
Venetian  mainland,  and  was  probably  a pupil  of  Alvise 
Vivarini,  who  influenced  also  others  whose  names  we  have  as 


339 


340  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
typical  of  a peculiar  intellectual,  as  well  as  sentimental,  de- 
velopment — Cima  da  Conegliano,  Basiati,  Montagna.  This 
is  the  view  of  Mr.  Berenson,  who  has  made  a remarkable 
study  of  our  painter. 

He  is  mysterious  in  his  methods  and  there  is  something  in 
the  execution  of  his  work  which  suggests  that  he  might 
have  probably  seen  Correggio.  For  us  who  are  painters 
there  are  correspondences  and  analogies  binding  together  on 
the  slightest  chance  minds  and  bodies  that  have  some  things 
in  common.  The  maker  of  these  sad  portraits  is  the  creator 
of  joyous,  deliciously  sensitive  paintings,  in  which  the  joy  of 
life  and  delight  in  the  sweetness  of  others  in  their  expressed 
affection  are  the  motive  of  the  artist.  They  look  like  dis- 
coveries of  the  abundance  of  sweetness  in  the  world. 

He  certainly  met  Titian.  Aretine  writes  to  him:  “Oh! 

Lotto,  good  as  goodness  itself  and  virtuous  as  virtue,  Titian 
writes  to  me  from  Augsburg  where  he  swims  in  imperial 
favours,  that  he  salutes  you  and  embraces  you.  He  says 
that  the  pleasure  he  has  in  finding  that  the  Emperor  likes 
his  pictures  would  be  greater  if  you  could  only  look  at  them 
for  a moment  and  give  your  opinion.” 

Lotto  gave  up  the  world  and  though  cheated  by  certain 
friends  he  still  had  enough  to  help  the  families  of  poorer  artists. 
He  withdrew  more  and  more,  and  in  a convent  at  Loreto 


LORENZO  LOTTO 

I'CRTRAIT  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN 

IMPERIAL  MUSEUM,  VIENNA 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  HANFSTAENGI 


LORENZO  LOTTO 

PORTRAIT  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN 

BORGHESE  GALLERY,  ROME 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


LORENZO  LOTTO 

PORTRAIT  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  MAN 

DORIA  GALLERY,  "ROME 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  341 
painted  to  the  end  religious  subjects  in  which  religious  emotion 
fills  the  picture.  With  all  his  devotion  his  mind  was  free, 
and  his  liberality  goes  so  far  as  to  have  painted  the  portraits 
of  Luther  and  of  his  wife,  and  to  have  shown  in  every  way  a 
manner  of  belief  fit  for  the  ideal  artist.  It  may  be  that  this 
very  freedom  of  mind,  this  sympathy  with  the  inner  soul  of 
others,  led  the  men  whose  portraits  are  here  to  give  their 
confidence  to  the  artist  chosen  to  paint  them.  One  certainly 
could  only  call  upon  a special  mind  of  exquisite  fibre  and 
responsiveness  to  carry  out  a part  of  one’s  self  not  visible  to 
the  outsider,  and  to  make  a record,  dignified  and  noble,  of 
one’s  emotion.  It  is  true  also  that  such  feeling,  so  near  to 
sentimentality,  belongs  more  to  the  Northern  Italian;  at 
least  the  records  of  the  art  of  painting  are  all  in  that  direction, 
and  from  east  to  west  there  is  a something  more  intimate,  and 
in  reality  less  outward,  than  what  further  down  in  the  penin- 
sular is  shown  by  any  record  of  external  life. 

So  here  is  the  portrait  of  the  “ Unknown  Man,”  in  the 
Museum  at  Vienna;  one  hand  on  his  heart  and  the  other 
holding  the  golden  claw,  his  symbol  of  the  hidden  wound. 
And  here  is  the  great,  well-fed  gentleman,  also  44  Unknown,” 
in  the  Borghese  Gallery  at  Rome,  in  rich  and  costly  garments; 
a personage,  a man  evidently  of  success  and  authority,  whose 
left  hand  again  presses  the  hip,  as  if  in  pain,  the  other  lying 


342  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
among  the  roses  in  which  there  is  a little  emblematic  skull. 
Then  there  is  another,  the  last  one,  the  most  painful  one, 
another  “ Unknown,”  in  the  Doria  Palace.  The  inscription 
on  the  wall  behind  him  tells  us  that  he  is  thirty-seven  years 
old.  He  is  an  ill  man;  we  see  that  he  is  somewhat  bent  over 
and  perhaps  unsteady  on  his  feet;  his  hands  are  older  than 
his  age,  one  of  them  points  to  the  hidden  trouble  and  story, 
and  above  we  see  on  the  wall  a mysterious  sculpture,  which  I 
leave  the  reader  to  interpret.  It  is  a winged  Love  standing 
in  a balance  whose  cups  his  feet  press  equally. 

And  naturally  we  cannot  pass  over  the  portrait  in  the 
Louvre  which  has  always  been  remembered  for  its  sadness, 
and  is  still  invariably  noticed  even  by  the  least  attentive. 
This  is  the  “ Young  Man  in  Black.5’*  The  picture  was  formerly 
attributed  to  Francesco  Francia,  for  reasons  not  necessary 
to  bring  up;  I believe  that  to-day  it  is  still  in  dispute.  It 
may  be  that  a certain  sadness  remains  with  the  name  of 
Francia  and  perhaps  therefore  a wish  to  give  this  portrait  to 
him.  For  Vasari  in  his  delightful  way  tells  a story  of  that 
painter’s  end  which  might  justify  anything  romantic  and 
improbable.  He  goes  on  to  say  how  Francia  was  living  in 
much  glory  and  enjoying  the  fruit  of  his  labours,  and  that 
his  reputation  reached  the  Divine  Raphael  then  working  in 
Rome.  Some  correspondence  passed  between  the  painters 


•See  Chapter  XII.  Unknown  Portraits. 


THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  343 
(we  have  apocryphal  letters)  and  Francia  much  desired  to 
see  the  work  of  the  younger  painter.  Now  there  was  occasion 
for  Raphael  to  send  his  famous  “Saint  Cecilia”  to  Bologna  and 
he  forwarded  it  to  the  care  of  Francia,  begging  him  to  repair 
any  scratch  that  might  be  found  on  the  painting,  and  to  cor- 
rect any  defect  he  perceived.  So  that  Francia  caused  the 
picture,  with  the  greatest  joy,  to  be  taken  into  a good  light, 
and  had  it  removed  from  its  case.  But  such  was  the  aston- 
ishment it  caused  him,  and  so  great  was  his  admiration  for  it, 
that  perceiving  his  own  error  and  the  foolish  presumption 
with  which  he  had  really  believed  in  his  own  superiority,  he 
took  it  deeply  to  heart,  and  falling  ill  with  his  grief,  in  a very 
short  time  he  died  of  its  effects.  This  is  a frequent  romance 
concerning  Renaissance  artists,  says  Mr.  Blashfield. 

Vasari  adds  what  to  us  moderns  is  quite  as  unusual,  how- 
ever prosaic  then:  “ There  are,  nevertheless,  many  who  de- 

clare his  death  to  have  been  so  sudden  as  to  give  rise  to  the 
belief,  which  was  confirmed  by  various  appearances,  that  it 
was  caused  by  poison.” 

Nevertheless  about  this  actual  painting  hangs  much  reference 
as  to  sadness.  The  verses  of  Alfred  de  Musset  are  said  to  have 
flowed  from  some  reminiscence  of  the  “ Young  Man  in  Black.” 

Qui  done  es-tu , morne  et  pale  visage? 

Sombre  portrait  vetu  de  noir? 


THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  - 


PART  THREE 


XXVI 

THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  — 
PART  THREE 


We  have  followed  the  private  fortunes  of  several  interesting 
and  unknown  individuals  in  the  portraits  of  Lorenzo  Lotto. 
Therein  we  know  that  these  people  have  suffered  or  been 
anxious,  or  have  had  some  reason  or  cause  for  finding  the 
world  not  beautiful.  And  Lotto  has  told  it  for  them  in  the 
beautiful  language  of  painting.  The  memory  of  some  other 
portraits  of  sadness  comes  back  to  us. 

One  is  certainly  the  portrait  of  Julius  the  Second,  by 
Raphael,  in  the  XJffizi  Gallery  in  Florence.  The  painting  is 
one  of  his  successes  in  his  manner  of  close,  careful  observation. 
We  see  the  Pope  here  in  some  moment  of  great  fatigue,  prob- 
ably physical  as  well  as  mental.  In  another  moment  he 
will  wake  — he  may  call,  as  he  did  sometimes,  for  wine, 
against  the  advice  of  his  attendants,  and  wisely  — and  bear 
up  again.  He  has  been  fighting  in  the  Church  and  the  battle 
has  gone  many  ways.  The  pontific  face  tells  the  story  of  this 
long  struggle.  He  has  been  thinking  and  remembering,  and 
Raphael  has  seen  him  in  a moment  of  dejection.  Another 
moment  will  come  and  the  great  man  will  be  again  the  great 

347 


348  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
fighter  and  champion  of  the  Church.  He  has  had,  in  the  past, 
a struggle  within  the  Church.  His  enemies,  the  hated  Bor- 
gias,  have  at  length  ended  suddenly,  and  nothing  can  exag- 
gerate Julius’s  personal  dislike  of  his  famous  predecessor, 
Alexander  VI,  the  “ concealed  Jew”  as  he  called  him.  A 
little  more  to  wait  and  he  comes  himself  to  the  throne. 
The  local  Roman  feudal  lords  have  been  reduced  to  reason 
for  the  moment.  The  French,  the  Germans  he  has  been 
fighting  and  will  take  up  again.  The  Venetians  have  been 
compromised  with,  after  their  defeat  and  repentance  and 
official  pardon.  The  Pope  has  gained  Bologna,  the  edge  of 
his  claim  for  the  Papal  Rights.  He  has  lost  it  again.  He  has 
himself  been  with  his  army,  sharing  their  hardships.  Cannon 
balls  have  fallen  about  him  without  his  caring.  He  is  ill 
with  fever,  but  he  rides  like  a young  man.  He  holds  on  in 
the  snow  and  cold.  He  risks  all.  He  has  been  on  the  point 
of  capture.  Bayard  himself  had  hoped  for  it  and  had  laid 
a plot  that  failed.  The  Pope  has  had  but  time  to  get  the 
castle  draw-bridge  pulled  up  and  he  himself,  leaving  his 
litter,  pulls  on  the  chain  and  saves  himself.  “ After  which,” 
says  the  chronicler,  “Bayard  melancholiated  much.”  The 
missing  of  such  a capture  as  that  of  the  great  Pope  must 
have  been  a grave  disappointment  to  any  man  of  war. 

We  know  how  Julius  looked  during  this  terrible  campaign. 


RAPHAEL 
JULIUS  II 

UFFIZI  GALLERY 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  BRAUN  & CO. 


MELOZZO  DA  FORLI 

SIXTUS  IV  GIVING  AUDIENCE  (THE  STANDING  PERSONAGE  AT  THE  EXTREME 
LEFT  IS  YOUNG  GIOVANNI  DELLA  ROVERE,  AFTERWARDS  POPE  JULIUS  II) 


THE  VATICAN 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


THE  MASS  OF  BOLSENA 


RAPHAEL 

HEAD  OF  POPE  JULIUS  II  FROM  “THE  MASS  OF  BOLSENA” 


THE  VATICAN 


THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  349 
There  is  a stupid  and  ugly  portrait,  apparently  by  an  inferior 
artist,  which  represents  him  in  a heavy  cap  and  fur  mantle, 
and  having  grown  a beard,  against  all  ecclesiastical  discipline, 
but  in  manner  more  comfortable  for  outdoor  exposure. 
People  were  shocked  at  this  breaking  of  the  rule  and  the  Pope 
returned  to  the  former  discipline  of  the  Church.  In  the 
cheap  ugliness  of  this  poor  portrait  we  can  perhaps  recognize 
the  ambitious,  energetic  young  priest  whose  portrait  we  have 
in  the  painting  by  Melozza  where  his  uncle,  Sixtus  IV,  and 
other  relatives  and  clergy  are  represented.  That  is  the  future; 
Raphael’s  portrait  is  the  story  of  a great  past. 

Julius  is  thirty-one  in  the  youthful  picture,  and  notwith- 
standing the  energy  of  the  face  there  is  perhaps  some  little 
veiling  of  sadness,  already  somewhat  justified,  for  his  family 
do  not  yet  sufficiently  recognize  wdiat  this  young  man  can 
be.  They  are  ambitious  and  unscrupulous  but  in  a way 
different  from  his.  But  his  influence  grows  and  in  1492 
he  is  one  of  the  candidates  for  the  Triple  Crown.  Then  the 
ill-omened  Borgias  come  in  and  for  ten  years  there  is  a 
constant  and  dangerous  struggle  of  enmity,  and  the  future 
Julius  takes  official  refuge  in  France,  urges  Charles  VIII  to 
the  invasion  of  Italy,  bringing  in  the  French  of  whom  he 
must  get  rid  later,  re-enters  Rome  on  the  death  of  Alexander 
VI  (Borgia),  and  again  has  to  wait,  until,  in  1503,  he  is  fifty- 


350  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
nine  years  of  age,  when  he  takes  the  name  of  the  Second 
Julius,  a name  of  Roman  omen. 

Four  years  later  a secretary  notes:  “ To-day,  November 

26,  1507,  the  Pope  began  to  occupy  the  upper  rooms  of 
the  Palace,  not  caring  to  have  constantly  before  his  eyes, 
he  tells  us,  the  image  of  his  predecessor  and  enemy,  a dis- 
guised Jew,  and  he  took  it  very  ill  that  this  mood  made  us 
laugh,  me  and  some  of  the  servants.  I said  to  him  that  it 
would  be  possible  to  remove  the  arms  of  Pope  Alexander 
wherever  they  were  painted  on  the  walls.  He  replied  that 
this  would  not  be  proper,  but  that  for  his  part  he  would  no 
longer  live  there  in  the  presence  of  that  wicked  and  criminal 
memory.” 

Julius,  however,  had  kept  these  Borgia  rooms  for  recep- 
tions and  official  use.  His  own  he  undertook  to  have  above, 
and  numbers  of  artists  were  called  in  to  adorn  them,  Perugino, 
Lotto,  etc.  And  then  comes  a young  man  from  Florence, 
the  Pope  likes  him  and  his  work,  dismisses  the  others,  and 
Raphael  decorates  the  great  rooms  which  carry  his  name 
and  fame  beyond  that  of  the  great  Pontiff  whom  he 
celebrates. 

Much  more  than  the  most  of  it  is,  of  course,  tne  worK  of 
the  hordes  of  pupils,  friends,  and  helpers  necessitated  by  the 
hurry  of  the  Pope  to  have  everything  covered  with  pictures 


THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  351 
full  of  meaning;  but  the  directing  mind  and  absorbent  genius, 
and  also  occasionally  the  facile  hand,  of  the  wonderful  roaster, 

v 

covered  the  walls  and  ceilings  as  wished  for,  in  the  pro- 
digious hurry  of  a few  years.  Somewhere  there  the  Pope 
sat  to  Raphael,  perhaps  for  this  very  portrait,  August  16, 
1512,  or  it  may  have  been  for  one  of  the  memorial  paintings 
on  the  walls  in  the  three  great  paintings:  “The 

Decretals,”  “The  Mass  of  Bolsena,”  or  the  “Heliodorus.” 
In  the  latter  two  the  Pope  has  no  fear,  whatever 
his  momentary  dejection  may  have  been  during  the 
careful  representation  which  Raphael  always  makes.  On 
the  walls  the  painter  is  no  longer  following  what  we 
replace  by  the  photograph;  however  painted  from  nature, 
they  are  ideals. 

Meanwhile  Michael  Angelo  is  alone  in  the  Sistine  Chapel 
pressing  the  great  decorations  which  he  is  to  show  in  another 
month.  And  another  memory  of  impatience  and  disappoint- 
ment may  still  be  within  the  mind  of  the  papal  sitter  as 
Raphael  studies  him.  For  Julius  is  a driver  — he  has  quar- 
relled with  Michael,  himself  no  smoother  of  facts,  who  per- 
haps at  bottom  feels  that  his  blood  is  as  good  as  the  Pope’s. 
They  are  reconciled,  Julius  bears  no  malice,  has  no  personal 
resentment,  but  the  Pope  rightly  knows  that  his  life’s 
days  are  closing  and  all  must  be  done  — done  for  the  great 


352  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
record  of  the  papacy  and  the  splendour  of  the  Roman 
Church.  The  great  monuments,  the  great  paintings,  will 
be  an  eternal  pressure  on  the  world.  He  can  add 
that  to  his  success  in  getting  rid  of  the  hateful  foreigner 
of  every  name  and  race.  Time  presses  — the  call  has 
already  come. 


XXVII 

THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  — 
PART  FOUR 


“THE  MASS  OF  BOLSENA” — THE  PORTRAIT  OF  JULIUS,  IN  IT  AND 
PORTRAITS  OF  SWISS  GUARD — “THE  DECRETALS” 

We  saw  Julius  painted  by  Raphael  in  portrait  wise.  This 
is  perhaps  at  the  same  time  that  he  sits  for  his  ideal  repre- 
sentations in  the  Stanze;  in  the  “ Decretals  of  Gregory,”  where 
perhaps  he  personates  the  other  Pope,  and  the  great  paint- 
ings, “The  Mass  of  Bolsena,”  and  the  “Heliodorus.”  The 
dejection,  the  sadness  of  the  framed  portrait  in  the  Uffizi, 
is  no  longer  in  those  two  great  stories. 

The  Germans  who  cooked  in  the  Stanze  during  the  sack 
of  Rome  some  years  later  and  generally  rumpled  things  have 
obscured  or  damaged  the  frescoes  more  or  less.  The  one  of 
“The  Decretals”  is  much  blurred,  as  I remember  it. 

We  know  in  general  the  story  of  “The  Mass  of  Bolsena.” 
A German  priest,  pious  but  troubled  by  doubt,  sees  the 
Eucharistic  bread  bleeding  as  he  lifts  the  chalice.  This  is 
in  the  year  1263.  In  memory  of  the  miracle  Urban 
IV  instituted  the  festival  Corpus  Domini , and  Saint 
Thomas  Aquinas  has  left  for  us  the  two  great  hymns,  Pange 

355 


356  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
lingua , etc.  When  Julius  visited  the  memorial  church  in 
September,  1506,  he  may  have  made  thereupon  some  vow, 
at  this  moment,  the  beginning  of  his  great  military  and 
political  campaigns;  in  many  ways  he  owes  this  tribute  to 
the  papacy. 

In  the  painting  of  “The  Mass  of  Bolsena”  the  Pope  kneels 
in  official  splendour  and  dignity  of  office.  His  firm  gaze 
challenges  the  doubtful  and  hesitating  expression  of  the 
young  priest,  agonized  by  doubt.  Julius  is  the  proper  repre- 
sentative of  Peter,  on  which  rock  the  Church  is  built.  No 
representation  of  the  real  and  the  ideal  in  the  papacy  has 
ever  been  so  complete.  A little  more  and  the  face  might 
be  that  of  Moses;  it  has  the  firmness  which  has  met  and  shall 
meet  again  the  outside  world,  the  foreigner  of  all  kinds,  and 
even  the  madness  of  the  German  Emperor,  who  wishes  to 
be  Pope.  As  to  the  miracle,  the  Pope  is  officially  certain 
of  it,  and  the  attendant  cardinals  about  him  personate  the 
meaning  of  the  great  hymn  of  Saint  Thomas.  And  the  Swiss 
Guard,  also  wonderfully  painted,  are  there.  The  Pope  has 
secured  by  money  the  help  of  the  Swiss  against  the  French, 
and  this  is  the  record. 

We  must  keep  remembering  that  the  works  of  art  contem- 
plated and  analyzed  by  us  here  are  business  results,  the 
nearest  approach  to  freedom  being  an  occasional  portrait 


THE  SADNESS  OF  CERTAIN  PORTRAITS  357 

— and  portraits  are  usually  definite  orders,  as  of  any  other 
kind  of  goods.  So  that  when  we  look  at  these  wall  spaces, 
more  or  less  beautifully  adorned,  we  must  remember  that  in 
all  the  periods  of  living  art  the  painting  or  the  sculpture 
belongs  to  the  place,  takes  its  entire  life  from  the  shape  and 
position  of  the  place,  from  its  being  high  or  low  or  broad  or 
narrow,  and  as  related  to  other  places,  the  wall  or  the  ceiling. 
In  all  well  understood  decoration  the  very  notion  of  the  entire 
picture,  if  it  be  a picture,  is  a part  of  this  necessity  of  the 
place.  The  thought  must,  as  it  were,  take  the  shape  of  the 
place.  That  is  why  we  admire  so  much  of  the  ancient  work 

— it  always  conforms  to  this  law.  It  is  only  modern  vice 
that  has  replaced  this  fitting  of  the  subject  to  the  place  by 
an  independent  picture.  It  may  be  that  this  is  owing  to 
the  fact  that  many  pictures  for  the  last  two  or  three  cen- 
turies have  been  in  portable  frames  and  hung  about  irre- 
spective of  any  choice  of  environment. 

This  painting  on  the  wall,  ordered  by  the  Pope  for  that  room, 
is  painted  around  a window.  The  window  is  not  in  the 
middle  of  the  wall,  and  that  fact  determines  the  spacing  of 
the  figures  to  the  right  and  left  — the  wide  space  taking 
in  the  peaceful  spread-out  group  of  the  Swiss  Guard,  the 
narrow  space  on  the  left  insisted  upon  through  the  excited 
uplifting  of  the  spectators,  who  have  suddenly  seen  the 


358  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
miracle.  Raphael  has  fitted  the  steps  that  lead  to  the  altar 
so  that  the  picture  appears  to  be  behind  the  frame  of  the 
window,  and  his  very  ingenuity  is  hidden.  It  was  necessary 
to  place  his  main  story  in  the  very  middle,  and  the  system  of 
the  steps  allows  it.  One  gets  the  impression  that  the  space 
was  made  for  the  picture,  instead  of  the  painting  having  been 
adapted  to  the  space. 

Every  detail  is  a balance  of  some  kind.  The  drapery  of 
the  priest  at  the  altar  is  repeated  at  once  by  the  movements 
of  the  acolytes,  and  they  are  in  their  business  places.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  the  one  nearest  to  us  may  have  just  let  go  the 
vestment  which  it  is  his  duty  to  lift  at  that  moment  of  the 
sacrifice.  The  gestures  of  the  congregation  repeat  every  line 
of  the  acolytes  as,  on  the  other  side,  the  group  of  cardinals 
in  their  steadiness  of  pose  repeat  the  lines  and  spaces  that 
belong  to  the  Pope’s  figure.  All  the  more  removed  from 
excitement  by  what  may  be  happening  is  the  quiet  of  the 
Swiss  Guard,  who  lean  against  the  papal  litter  in  military 
duty.  Within  that  proper  form  one  or  two  of  them  look 
up.  In  the  painting  they  are  magnificent. 

All  the  picture  is  balanced  proportion  beyond  any  I can 
remember.  Even  the  ugly  outline  of  the  enclosure  round 
the  altar  is  a concession  to  the  other  lines  of  the  composition 
and  the  shape  of  the  space. 


XXVIII 

THE  STANZE  OF  THE  VATICAN 


What  we  see  to-day  of  the  paintings  which  Raphael  and  his 
many  illustrious  and  unknown  assistants  carried  out  in  the 
rooms  of  the  Vatican  can  be  only  part  of  what  was  left  by 
the  artists.  Men  of  the  bands  that  sacked  Rome  soon  after 
the  days  of  Julius  and  Leo  camped  in  the  rooms,  with  the 
inevitable  injuries;  then  repairs,  and  stupid  ones,  were  made, 
of  which  we  know;  and  then  again  there  were  repaintings 
and  repairings,  “restorations,”  as  they  are  called.  So  what 
we  see  leaves  little  of  the  first  part,  and  less  of  Raphael’s 
own  marvellous  hand.  But  some  must  be  his  own  work. 
“The  Mass  of  Bolsena”  is  too  beautiful  in  general  appearance 
not  to  have  kept  much  of  its  surface.  And  in  the  portrait 
of  Julius,  for  instance,  the  head  is  among  the  successes  of  the 
art  of  painting.  The  “Heliodorus”  has  been  less  fortunate, 
nor  perhaps  has  it  had  so  much  of  the  master’s  own  hand. 
And  yet  they  were  great  artists,  the  assistants  who  may  be 
the  painters  of  most  that  we  see.  Two,  at  least,  are  pic- 
tured bearing  on  their  shoulders  the  litter  of  Pope  Julius, 
as  they  carried  the  weight  of  the  “Heliodorus.” 

As  to  this  picture  we  know  the  subject  not  very  well 

361 


362  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
because  it  is  in  the  Apocrypha,  with  which  we  English-speak- 
ing people  are  not  usually  conversant.  The  story  makes  a 
beautiful  decorative  subject,  and  with  Raphael  the  meaning 
of  it  is  an  expression  of  the  feelings  of  the  great  Pope  regard- 
ing the  wicked  intruders  upon  the  rights  of  the  Church  of 
God  and  the  holiness  of  His  Temple.  The  English  is  amusing 
to  quote,  mentioning  beforehand  that  Heliodorus  was  the 
Treasurer  of  Soleucas,  “King  of  Asia,”  sent  by  him  to 
bring  the  money  of  the  Treasury  in  Jerusalem  “full  of  in- 
finite sums”  so  that  “ the  multitude  of  their  riches  was  innumer- 
able.” He  was  courteously  received  by  the  High  Priest  of 
Jerusalem  and  told  that  there  was  much  money  laid  up  for 
the  relief  of  widows  and  fatherless  children  and  that  it  was 
altogether  impossible  that  such  wrong  should  be  done  unto 
them  that  had  committed  it  to  the  holiness  of  the  place  and 
to  the  majesty  and  inviolable  sanctity  of  the  Temple. 

“Nevertheless  Heliodorus  executed  that  which  was  decreed. 
Now  as  he  was  there  present  himself  with  his  guard  about 
the  Treasury,  the  Lord  of  spirits,  and  the  Prince  of  all  power, 
caused  a great  apparition,  so  that  all  that  presumed  to  come 
in  with  him  were  astonished  at  the  power  of  God,  and  fainted, 
and  were  sore  afraid.  For  there  appeared  unto  them  a 
horse  with  a terrible  rider  upon  him,  and  adorned  with  a 
very  fair  covering,  and  he  ran  fiercely,  and  smote  at  Helio- 


RAPHAEL 

HELIODORUS  CAST  OUT  OF  THE  TEMPLE 


RAPHAEL 

POPE  JULIUS  II,  FROM  “HELIODORUS  CAST  OUT  OF  THE  TEMPLE” 


EUGENE  DELACROIX 
HELIODORUS  CAST  OUT  OF  THE  TEMPLE 


CHURCH  OF  ST.  SULPICE,  PARIS 
FROM  THE  ETCHING  BY  GREUX 


THE  STANZE  OF  THE  VATICAN  363 

dorus  with  his  forefeet,  and  it  seemed  that  he  that  sat  upon 
the  horse  had  complete  harness  of  gold.  Moreover  two 
other  young  men  appeared  before  him,  notable  in  strength, 
excellent  in  beauty,  and  comely  in  apparel,  who  stood  by 
him  on  either  side,  and  scourged  him  continually,  and  gave 
him  many  sore  stripes.  And  Heliodorus  fell  suddenly  unto 
the  ground,  and  was  compassed  with  great  darkness;  but 
they  that  were  with  him  took  him  up  and  put  him  into  a 
litter.  Thus  him,  that  lately  came  with  a great  train  and 
with  all  his  guard  into  the  said  Treasury,  they  carried  out, 
being  unable  to  help  himself  with  his  weapons:  and  mani- 
festly they  acknowledged  the  power  of  God.”  (Maccabees, 
ii-iii,  23-28.) 

In  the  “Heliooorus”  Raphael  has  used  a method  of  giving 
greater  effect  by  suggestion  than  by  the  reality  of  his  repre- 
sentation. This  same  suggestion  Delacroix  has  used  in  his 
picture  of  the  “Massacre  of  Scio”  (now  in  the  Louvre), 
where  the  crowd  edges  the  picture  and  leaves  a void  in  the 
centre,  so  that  we  feel  the  crowd  outside  of  the  frame  in  our 
minds,  involuntarily.  In  the  Vatican  painting  the  crowd 
edges  the  picture,  the  same  crowd  which  in  the  text  of  the 
Apocrypha  fill  the  street.  The  band  of  Heliodorus  has  al- 
ready made  off  with  the  plunder  and  he,  too,  is  about  to  leave 
our  sight  as  the  avenging  messengers  plunge  at  him  with 


364  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
scourges,  and  the  divine  horseman  rides  him  down.  Swiftly 
the  angels  walk  the  air,  but  the  mysterious  horse  is  less 
fairy-like.  The  crowd  is  made  of  very  few,  but  we  recognize 
a crowd,  or  rather  its  edge,  and  all  this  motion  and  every 
line  and  attitude  slowly  point  to  the  High  Priest  far  off,  who 
prays  and  sees  nothing,  confident  in  prayer.  In  fact  the 
painting  could  be  called  “The  Answer  to  Prayer.” 

Splendidly  improbable,  following  the  story  as  in  a aream, 
Pope  Julius  in  the  picture  witnesses  the  event  of  eighteen 
hundred  years  before.  But  he  also  sees,  the  triumph  of  the 
Church  over  its  enemies,  the  spiritual  and  temporal  Church 
of  which  he  is  guardian.  In  his  mind  the  temporalisms  of 
the  Church  are  saved  from  the  foreigner’s  grasp  — the  horse- 
man and  the  angels  drive  the  Frenchman  or  Spaniard  out  of 
Italy  — his  persistent  dream.  “Va  fuori  dTtalia,  Va  fuori, 
O stranier.”  And  the  lashing  of  Heliodorus  may  recall  to 
him  the  official  blows  with  scourges  given  to  the  Ambassadors 
of  Venice  and  other  excommunicated  enemies  in  the  cere- 
mony of  their  repentance. 

Julius  is  carried  on  his  litter;  his  hands  quietly  rest  on  the 
arms  of  his  chair;  perhaps  his  quiet  face  has  some  contempt 
in  its  expression.*  We  know  the  names  of  the  men  who  carry 

*There  is  even  a joke,  sometimes  credited  to  Raphael  himself  but  apparently  from  one  of 
the  Colonna,  regarding  the!  higher  colouring  of  Pope  Julius’s  face  in  the  triumphant  Heliodorus 
picture.  It  was,  they  said,  after  lunch,  and  we  have  noticed  that  he  wisely  called  for  wine, 
at  times,  to  carry  him  over  some  moment. 


THE  STANZE  OF  THE  VATICAN  365 

him.  One  is  a papal  secretary,  whose  name  is  on  the  paper 
he  carries,  a delicate  attention,  probably,  to  the  influential 
official.  Another  is  the  engraver,  Marc  Antonio,  whose 
work  is  so  largely  from  Raphael  and  who  was  helping  in  the 
task.  The  Pope  being  there  is,  to  many  of  us  more  prosaic 
people,  a strange  thing.  But  time  tells,  and  now  how  much  of 
poetry  is  added  to  this  work  of  art,  by  just  this  bit  of  history, 
the  record  of  a great  desire,  a great  triumph,  and  a memory 
of  a great  personality  worthy  of  the  Temple  itself. 

In  these  paintings  Raphael  brings  us  into  a new  world, 
which,  is  our  own.  The  Fifteenth  Century  (what  the 
Italians  called  the  Quattrocento ) is  over,  and  the  Sixteenth 
in  full  bloom.  Michael  Angelo  has  taught  the  younger  men, 
and  the  figures,  even  that  of  the  wicked  Heliodorus,  are  splen- 
did and  powerful,  full  now  of  the  new  knowledge  of  the 
developed  human  form.  The  name  of  Michael  Angelo 
brings  back  the*  fact  that  a small  bronze  medallion  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel  represents  the  same  story  of  Heliodorus. 
But  Heliodorus  lies  bleeding  under  the  horse’s  hoofs,  and 
the  youths  on  either  side  strike  him  with  scourges. 

So  with  Delacroix  in  the  painting  of  the  “Chapel  of  the 
Angels”  at  Saint  Sulpice.  We  see  the  story  told  in  its  facts. 
Heliodorus  lies  under  the  repeated  blows,  carefully  alternated, 
of  the  Divine  horse  — a point  that  Raphael  has  missed.  And 


366  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
the  angelic  avengers  plunge  down  through  space  in  a greater 
sweep  than  even  the  Divine  Raphael  has  given  in  any  of  his 
flights.  Indeed  no  one,  before  or  after,  has  portrayed  a 
figure  in  mid-air  in  such  a reckless  movement.  Had  Dela- 
croix done  nothing  else  he  would  still  be  the  greatest  figure 
painter  of  modern  times. 

But  also  every  part  of  the  story  is  given  without  our 
seeing  anything  but  the  main  legend  and  its  glory.  The 
robbers  are  arrested  as  they  go  away  with  their  plunder;  the 
High  Priest  far  above  us  sees  the  scene  with  surprise  and 
joy.  The  helpless  faithful  do  not  yet  see,  or  cannot  see  the 
miracle.  But  also  the  composition  — i,  e .,  the  disposing  of 
the  figures — is  in  itself  a triumph,  not  a line,  not  a mass,  but 
moves  in  cadences  as  of  full  music.  The  necessities  of  the 
place,  that  is  to  say  of  the  space  given  to  the  parts,  are  so 

carefully  met  that  the  picture  looks  as  if  freely  arranged 

* 

from  choice.  The  painting  is  not  as  much  coloured  as  the 
usual  paintings  of  Delacroix.  It  is  done  so  as  to  form  a 
continuation  of  the  wall,  and  perhaps  on  that  account  has 
attracted  less  attention  from  outsiders,  for  in  France  the 
churches  are  not  fit  places  for  artistic  representation  by 
wall  painting. 

The  exigencies  of  the  modern  world  bear  upon  this  work 
of  art  as  upon  those  of  all  of  us.  Delacroix  cannot,  at  his 


THE  STANZE  OF  THE  VATICAN  367 

date,  and  surrounded  by  the  learning  and  discovery  of  the 
past,  give  a Bramante  architecture  of  his  Temple  as  Raphael 
does  so  beautifully  and  informingly.  He  must  adjust  these 
new  spaces,  not  used  before,  this  new  ornamentation,  not 
yet  recorded  in  outside  art.  Hence  also  much  of  his  arrange- 
ment is  based  on  this.  The  column  divides  the  space  equally 
and  helps  the  plunge  of  horse  and  angel  and  the  flattening 
out  of  Heliodorus  stretched  out  on  the  steps  with  his  plunder. 
The  great  column  is  placed  by  the  same  rule  of  sight  which 
in  “The  Mass  of  Bolsena”  prevents  our  noticing  that  the 
window  is  not  in  the  middle.  Here  only  the  inner  line  of 
the  column  is  in  the  middle;  the  farther  one  again  balancing 
the  space  to  the  left  quite  equally,  but  we  do  not  see  the 
curious  refinement  of  the  wonderful  composer;  it  is  so 
natural  that  we  take  it  for  granted. 

Hence  also  the  great  flutter  of  the  curtain  above  moves 
violently  and  repeats  for  Decoration  and  Art  the  flutter  and 
curves  and  drapery  of  the  avenging  angel  — otherwise 
solitary.  The  same  wind  from  heaven  blows  both.  And 
the  artist  has  noticed  the  back  action  which  sucks  back  the 
other  curtains,  which  we  do  not  notice,  just  as  we  should 
not  in  nature.  We  should  hear  it,  perhaps.  And  then, 
too,  Art  makes  less  stiff  the  great  column  farther  back 
and  helps  us  to  feel  more  distinctly  the  run  upstairs 


368  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  the  imploring  woman  — who,  as  in  Raphael,  personifies 
the  crowd. 

In  fact,  as  with  Raphael,  but  following  modern  necessities 
of  probabilities,  architecture,  costume,  and  all  the  archae- 
ology of  his  period,  Delacroix  has  touched,  modified,  arranged 
every  part,  every  line,  every  curve  of  this  astounding  piece. 
But  we  are  too  near  to  it  in  time  to  get  the  perspective  of  its 
value  — and  we  see  less  yet  how  the  modern  call  of  the  future 
is  here  met  — the  necessity  of  reckoning  with  life’s  probabil- 
ities and  the  putting  aside  of  the  respectable  but  tiresome 
conventionalities  of  the  schoolroom. 


XXIX 

THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  — PART  ONE 


In  1492  adventurers,  conquistadores  of  all  nations,  sailed 
out  into  the  world  to  take  their  chances  in  the  changes  of 
discovery  and  revolution  which  were  making  a new  arrange- 
ment that  holds,  perhaps,  to-day.  The  Papacy,  the  reign 
of  the  Christian  Church  through  Rome,  was  changing  into 
a form  the  opposite  of  what  it  had  held  before.  The  Spiritual 
Power,  through  which  a Pope  of  little  consequence,  or  weak, 
or  battling  at  home,  still  ruled  outside  through  the  mean- 
ing of  his  title,  was  passing  into  a Temporal  Power,  forced 
into  this  change  by  the  changes  of  the  world  outside,  and 
more  especially  by  the  changes  in  the  Italian  world.  Various 
princes  and  rulers  replaced  the  communal  systems.  There 
were  tyrants  at  Milan,  Florence,  Rimini,  Ferrara  and  Pe- 
rugia, each  one  having  no  other  claim  than  his  own  power  to 
have  and  to  hold.  There  could  be  no  more  Guelphs,  nor 
could  there  exist  a free  church  with  no  domain  belonging  to 
it,  and  tyrants  and  princes  innumerable  all  about  it;  still 
less  with  great  princes  who  would  have  taken  possession  of 
the  authority  of  the  Church  and  put  in  their  own  Popes,  as 
before.  If  the  religious  power  was  waning,  all  the  more 

371 


372  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
reason  there  was  for  asserting  some  other  temporal  power, 
and  to  be  tyrant  in  the  same  way  as  the  other  tyrants 
of  Italy. 

We  know  this  also  through  our  more  distinct  traditions  of 
the!  breaking  up  of  the  remainder  of  Europe  into  smaller  na- 
tionalities, each  one  having  more  and  more  an  existence  of 
its  own,  and  in  this  way  opposing  thereby  more  and  more 
some  national  sentiment  to  the  influence  of  Rome.  The  Pope 
became  more  and  more  a foreign  prince. 

Then  this  short  period  ended,  as  we  know,  by  Charles 
V taking  possession  of  Italy  with  the  theatrical  mark  of 
the  Sack  of  Rome,  in  1527.  Then  comes  again  the  spiritual 
evolution,  the  so-called  Catholic  Reaction,  the  Councils, 
the  missions  of  the  Jesuits;  and  the  Popes  lose  their  Temporal 
Power,  and  regain  the  spiritual  ascendency  properly  belong- 
ing to  their  claims. 

At  that  date  of  1492,  which  marks  the  culmination  of  the 
state  of  the  Church  that  we  have  looked  over,  Alexander  VI 
(Borgia)  became  Pope.  He  and  his  son  are  the  great  char- 
acters in  the  rule  of  the  Papacy  by  tyranny  in  opposition  to 
the  tyrants  all  about  it.  Their  sinister  reputation  is  owing 
to  their  being  picturesque  types  of  this  political  idea;  but 
otherwise  they  were  like  the  people  round  about  them.  The 
splendour  of  art  has  helped  to  keep  in  the  minds  of  men  the 


(BERNARDINO  DI  BIAGO)  PINTURICCHIO 
THE  RESURRECTION 

BORGIA  APARTMENTS,  THE  VATICAN 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


PINTURICCHIO 

ALEXANDER  VI  FROM  “THE  RESURRECTION” 

THE  VATICAN 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


PINTURICCHIO 

HEAD  OF  ALEXANDER  VI.  FROM  “THE  RESURRECTION” 


THE  VATICAN 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  373 

splendour  of  what  we  call  their  crimes.  Smaller  persons  of 
the  same  kind  have  not  had  their  historical  fortune. 

Before  the  Borgia  others  had  begun  to  use  the  power  and 
the  wealth  they  could  control  so  as  to  increase,  or  even  found, 
their  families.  The  Rovere,  of  whom  Pope  Julius,  who  has 
so  interested  us  in  his  relation  with  Art,  is  the  great  man  in 
every  way,  begin  a practice  of  acquiring  by  right  or  wrong, 
which  the  Borgia,  their  late  enemies,  continue.  In  a manner 
that  we  understand,  because  we  have  it  about  us,  the  Borgia 
wants  everything,  and  Art  among  other  things. 

Alexander’s  portrait,  which  we  have  in  the  Borgia  apart- 

I 

ments,  tells  the  story  of  the  man  more  completely  than  we 
can  make  it  out  in  words.  The  Pope  is  praying,  and  appar- 
ently really  praying,  though  he  has  posed  for  his  painter. 
Whatever  he  does,  he  does  fully,  then  and  there,  the  man 
of  the  moment.  Even  his  habit  of  lying  is  a part  of  a certain 
directness  of  character.  “He  is  so  sensual ,”  says  the  Venetian 
ambassador,  “that  he  cannot  help  indicating  his  momen- 
tary feeling.  He  speaks  with  such  emotion  that  the  words 
seem  to  come  from  his  heart,  not  from  his  mouth.”  One  sees 
the  lie  growing  on  his  lips  as  he  speaks,  and  sometimes  he 
acts  nobly,  as  he  feels,  that  is  to  say  without  wincing  at 
what  he  is  determined  to  do.  Now,  like  an  English  gentle- 
man, he  goes  hunting  when  bored,  or  else,  in  a manner  which 


374  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
scandalizes  us  to-day,  he  orders  dances.  Not  that  the  scandal 
was  not  enormous  then,  but  to-day  all  such  things  are  im- 
possible to  our  minds.  The  world  disapproved  them,  in 
part  fiercely,  in  part  because  the  poison  of  the  new  culture 
had  not  quite  reached.  Later  we  should  have  ceremonies 
to  recall  the  worship  of  Dame  Venus  according  to  poetic 
traditions  and  classical  culture.  Later  the  forms  of  Latin 
rhetoric  would  cover  up  the  meanings  of  the  texts  ecclesiastical 
or  diplomatic.  We  are  only  in  the  beginning  of  the  Renais- 
sance. These  people  are  foreigners,  of  those  very  rich  and 
enterprising  and  violent  foreigners  who  are  capturing  the 
new  world  and  have  had  little  time  for  previous  finish.  So 
ensued  things  that  were  scandalous,  some  in  part  from  a 
sort  of  naturalness  and  “good  nature,”  as  it  is  called  and  as 
we  see  it.  The  light-heartedness  of  the  Pope  made  him 
ready  to  enter  into  any  form  of  amusement  and  to  delight 
in  that  of  others,  often  at  times  that  were  not  appropriate. 
From  his  windows  he  laughed  at  the  rather  indecent  buffoon- 
eries of  the  carnival;  he  had  comedies  acted  in  his  presence. 
Conventional  decorum  was  abandoned  as  he  felt;  public 
festivals  were  given  in  the  Palace  Rooms  with  fair  ladies 
seated  about  the  Pope  and  cardinals  in  masquerade  costumes. 
Even  had  there  been  nothing  wrong  in  all  this,  it  was  sure  to 
be  exaggerated  in  the  account  of  others.  This  is  the  more 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  375 

gentle  view,  but  there  are  records  of  absolute  orgies  in  the 
Rooms,  as  when  Caesar  entertains  at  a lengthy  supper  fifty 
impossible  persons.  Not  that  Caesar  is  good-natured,  he 
is  wilful,  intelligent  and  splendid  as  a human  being.  As  we 
have  seen,  the  Pope  does  much  out  of  mere  enjoyment  and 
as  a grand  kind  of  'parvenu . 

We  cannot  follow  him  in  many  of  these  details,  but  we 
happen  to  have,  as  every  one  knows,  a marvellous  record  by 
a manner  of  sacristan-secretary  who  puts  down  anything 
as  the  days  go  along,  sometimes  skipping  — so  that  the 
facts  that  Caesar,  the  Pope’s  son,  has  murdered  his  brother, 
or  ordered  him  murdered,  and  that  the  Pope  grieves  and  re- 
fuses food,  and  also  that  certain  arrangements  of  ecclesi- 
astical ceremonies  are  to  be  changed,  are  equally  put  down 
by  our  wonderful  journalist. 

Caesar  is  heartless;  the  Pope  is  not,  however  terrible  the 
stories  around  him  and  some  concerning  him.  He  loves  his 
children  — he  is  sensual  and  feels  things.  And  if  Heaven 
punishes,  then  certainly  this  father  must  have  suffered  all 
he  could,  when  one  son  murdered  the  other  as  part  of  a nec- 
essary sequence  of  family  development.  For  the  famous 
murder  is  a purely  political  one;  Caesar  wished  to  be  the 
head  of  the  house;  his  elder  brother  is  not  fit,  exactly,  and 
were  he  or  not,  he  is  in  the  way.  It  is  pure  politics  and  sound 


376  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
reasoning.  Nor  does  this  ferocity  prevent  either  Caesar’s 
encouragement  of  Art  or  of  any  handsome  thing  contributing 
to  splendour  and  influence.  In  this  way  he  has  some  kindness 
for  the  painter  man  (Pinturicchio-Pictoricus,  as  he  signs 
himself)  who  did  the  great  apartments , and  who  was,  it  is 
true,  also  an  important  person  in  his  line.  Pinturicchio  had 
been  relieved  from  taxes  in  the  town  to  which  he  had  moved 
in  the  Papal  Lands,  and  the  town  had  reassessed  and  worried 
him.  Here  Caesar  came  in  and  protected  claims  that  seem 
just,  but  which,  as  we  know  need  protection  most  especially. 
Pinturicchio,  prior  to  his  Borgia  commission,  had  become  well 
known,  and  here  in  Rome  also  most  distinctly.  And  not  to 
insist  further,  he  had  also,  as  we  see  to-day,  done  remarkable 
work  on  the  walls  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  whose  vault  later 
Michael  Angelo  was  to  make  so  famous  by  his  paintings  that 
we  say  “the  Sistine”  as  we  do  “the  Parthenon.”  The  name 
means  one  of  the  limits  reached  by  man.  And  here  Pintu- 
ricchio the  Pictoricus,  in  his  modest  way,  holds  a charm  or 
something  of  his  own,  however  impossibly  removed  from  the 
meanings  and  the  expressions  of  the  terrible  paintings  of  the 
vault  and  the  Last  Judgment.  Nor  shall  we  forget  that  the 
Sistine  is  the  Chapel  of  Sixtus,  the  preceding  Pope  of  the 
Rovere  hated  by  the  Borgias,  hence  nothing  about  the 
Sistine  Chapel  is  continual  until  Julius  Rovere  comes  in  as 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  377 

Pope  and  presses  Michael  Angelo  into  the  service  of  the  glory 
of  the  Rovere  and  Sixtus  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

Meanwhile,  until  the  day  of  extreme  change,  both  splen- 
dour and  amusement  are  needed  for  the  Borgia.  Hence, 
even  with  Julius,  later,  the  use  for  ceremonies  and  receptions 
of  the  splendid  apartments,  which  he  hated  from  the  bottom 
of  his  soul,  as  remains  of  the  detested  Borgia.  That  hatred 
has  saved  the  apartments  for  us.  They  were  closed  by  Julius’s 
orders,  after  a time. 

It  was  in  1507  that  Julius  II  gave  up  the  use  of  the  Borgia 
Rooms,  “unwilling  to  live  any  longer  in  the  presence  of  that 
wicked  and  criminal  memory”  ( memoria  pessima  et  scelerata). 
This  very  picture  is  perhaps  referred  to  when  he  says  (accord- 
ing to  the  witness,  a Master  of  the  Palace  who  has  left  queer 
notes)  that  he  does  not  wish  to  have  always  before  his  eyes 
the  figure  of  Alexander,  his  precursor.  His  greater  good 
taste  prevented  Julius  destroying  the  actual  image  and  em- 
blems of  Alexander.  And,  as  we  have  seen,  thereupon  later 
came  in  the  artists  who  were  to  adorn  the  upper  rooms,  so 
famous.  Perugino,  Sodoma,  Peruzzi,  Lotto  and  others  begin 
to  work  in  there,  with  Bramante,  the  great  architect,  direct- 
ing and  dining  them  according  to  his  pleasant  and  profitable 
habit.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  had  worked  for  Csesar  Borgia; 
was  that  the  reason  why  the  greatest  artist  in  the  world, 


378  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
and  the  most  famous,  was  not  employed?  And  he  appears  td 
have  come  to  ask.  There  was  no  great  Raphael  yet  to 
employ.  He  was  to  come  a moment  later,  with  companions 
and  friends  — this  relative  of  Bramante  — and  control  all 
in  the  famous  upper  rooms,  while  the  infamous  lower  rooms 
remained  almost  forgotten  to  our  day. 

But  later  the  hordes  of  the  German  invasion  lit  fires  and 
camped  in  the  great  spaces  which  Julius  gave  to  Raphael  in 
15 12,  while  the  ill-famed  Borgia  Rooms  remained  comparatively 
safe.  Some  damages  there  were  and  a few  restorations, 
but  the  greater  part  has  been  saved  and  is  shown  to  us  to- 
day through  the  good  will  and  efforts  of  the  late  Pope  Leo. 

They  are  marvels  in  a way  — they  are  especially  so  to  us, 
who  have  lost  the  sense  of  unity,  and  who  endure  accumula- 
tion and  believe  in  it.  We  have  been  educated  out  of  the 
sense  of  colour.  And  this  decoration  of  the  Borgia  Rooms 
will  be  some  of  the  last  except  in  Venice  — for  Italy.  So 
that  the  Borgia  Rooms  are  historically  important.  They 
reach  the  end  and  beginning  of  something  in  Art.  They  are 
also  unambitious  and  thereby  soothing.  And  that  notwith- 
standing the  look  of  having  been  made  for  a healthy,  sen- 
suous set  of  people. 

The  Borgia  Pope,  or  his  entourage,  knew  of  Pinturicchio’s 
abilites  in  many  ways.  He  had  already  begun  to  apply  the 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  379 

discoveries  and  suggestions  of  Greco-Roman  work  just  opened 
and  covering  the  walls  and  vaults  of  Thermae  and  antique 
sepulchres;  the  “grotte” — whence  the  name  of  grotesque, 
grottesche,  which  came  to  be  attached  to  the  fantastic  and 
elegant  variations  that  the  painters  of  the  moment  — and 
our  “painter  man”  among  the  first  — developed  for  the 
future  of  all  decoration.  The  new  Pope,  who  wished  old 
apartments  made  splendid,  and  in  a hurry,  knew  then  whom 
he  had  asked;  he  knew  or  had  heard  of  the  elegance  and  rich- 
ness which  this  man  could  show  in  his  mixture  of  religious 
and  pagan  symbolism  and  figure. 

There  were  six  rooms,  to  be  begun  in  1492  and  finished 
by  1495,  so  that  the  trembling  Borgia  could  receive  the  visit 
of  Charles  VIII  of  France,  passing  through  Rome  with 
a pillaging  army,  and  only  just  prevented  from  displacing 
the  Pope  by  a diplomacy  which  gave  him  something  else, 
and  a chance  to  conquer  the  Kingdom  of  Naples.  How  all 
this  painting  and  gold  and  splendour  seemed  to  the  Northern 
invaders  I do  not  exactly  know.  To  us,  who  have  nothing 
else  to  compare  with  it,  it  is  a marvel  of  success. 


XXX 

THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  — PART  TWO 


It  is  generally  understood  that,  more  or  less,  five  of  the  six 
rooms  remain  the  work  of  the  master  and  of  his  numerous 
army  of  assistants.  One  room  is  rejected  through  its  having 
been  damaged  and  repaired  long  ago.  There  remain  the 
Halls  of  “Mysteries,”  of  “The  Saints,”  of  “The  Liberal  Arts  ” 
of  “The  Creed,”  of  “The  Sybils.”  Umbrians,  of  course, 
like  Pinturicchio  himself,  Florentines,  Lombards,  Romans, 
etc.,  were  engaged  upon  the  work,  many  perhaps  just  bor- 
rowed from  the  painting  shops  and  studios  of  other  masters, 
but  all  has  been  united  by  the  master-mind  (and  evident  hand, 
sometimes).  The  ornamentation  covers  all  — even  the  pic- 
tures, which  was  doubtless  intentional.  They  are  con- 
ceived as  ornament,  and  wherever  they  slip  away  into  too 
much  meaning  they  are  brought  back  into  place  by  special 
devices  of  embossing  and  gilding  and  stuccoing  and  rich 
colour  of  peculiar  types.  All  this  has  a childish  side,  but  it 
is  so  frank  that  we  cannot  but  respect  the  good  sense  that 
handled  so  much  that  was  incongruous  in  meaning  and  in 
execution,  and  thus  made  of  it  all  not  only  a beautiful  but, 
as  it  were,  an  innocent  amusement.  That  is  the  real  marvel 


383 


384  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
— to-day  few  could  be  so  unconscious  of  superiority.  And 
even  then,  at  any  moment,  was  to  come  the  great  intellectual 
effort  of  the  greater  men,  and  the  meanness  and  coldness  of 
their  imitators. 

It  is  difficult  to  choose  for  the  purpose  of  our  notice  more 
than  here  and  there  a fragment,  and  perhaps  that  will  not  be 
just  to  the  other  fragments  that  are  left  out.  At  any  rate  let 
us  follow  the  choice  of  the  great  portrait  of  Alexander  VI. 

Here  we  may  mark  in  this  profile,  so  remarkable  as  pro- 
fessional expression  — for  the  Pope  is  really  praying  — a 
certain  something  which  may  explain  the  Jewish  origin, 
violently  referred  to  by  Julius  II,  when,  ordering  these 
apartments  closed  or  given  up,  he  referred  to  the  Borgia 
as  Marano,  a concealed  Jew.*  The  Borgia  may  well  have 
been  subject  to  this  suspicion  from  their  origin  in  Spain, 
where  they  had  already,  as  we  know,  attained  much  position, 
and  where  later  a saint  was  to  illustrate  the  name  in  no 
doubtful  way. 

But  the  Borgia  or  Borja  (pronounced  Bortja)  themselves 
are  of  no  doubtful  descent.  They  go  far  back  to  the  time  of 
distribution  of  Moorish  lands  among  the  warriors  of  King 
Alfonso  of  Aragon,  somewhere  about  1100.  Again,  a century 

* Marano  is  an  official  Christian  with  Jewish  antecedents  and  tendencies  — a manner  of 
concealed  Jew.  His  greater  good  taste  prevented  Julius  destroying  the  actual  image  and 
emblems  of  Alexander. 


PINTURICCHIO 

THE  DISPUTE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE 

BORGIA  APARTMENTS — THE  VATICAN 


PINTURICCHIO 

ST.  CATHERINE  FROM  “THE  DISPUTE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE” 

THE  VATICAN 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


PINTURICCHIO 

DJEM  AND  PALEOLOGOS  FROM  “THE  DISPUTE  OF  ST.  CATHERINE” 

THE  VATICAN 

PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


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THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  385 

more  or  so,  Don  Jaime  the  Conqueror,  gave  more  places  to 
the  Borgia,  among  them  Gandia,  whose  name  is  borne  by 
one  of  Alexander’s  sons.  The  line  also  includes  the  great 
Saint  Francis  of  Borja.  They  are  very  noble  and  connected 
with  royalty.  Our  Borgia  Pope,  Alexander  VI,  is  really  only 
half  a Borgia.  His  uncle,  Pope  Calixtus,  one  of  the  beginners 
of  the  system  of  nepotism  that  devoured  the  Papacy,  made 
a Borgia  of  this  nephew  Rodrigo  — son  of  a sister  married 
to  a gentleman  of  the  name  of  Llangol.  Here  perhaps  may 
slip  in  the  reason  for  Julius’s  charge  of  Jewish  origin.  And 
then  the  moment  was  one  suspicious  of  such  origins  and  such 
tendencies.  A few  years  more  and  Ignatius^ Loyola  would 
be  arrested  by  the  Inquisition  as  suspected  of  Judaism. 
Meanwhile  Rodrigo  Borgia,  born  Llangol,  had  permission 
to  bear  the  arms  of  the  Bull  and  the  Bars,  whose  imagery  in 
all  sorts  of  ways,  in  ornament  and  in  story  subjects,  fills  with 
joy  and  charm  and  absence  of  severity  the  vaulting  of  the 
Rooms. 

He  lived  rather  quietly,  apart  from  political  pressure,  in 
wealthy  comfort.  He  had  begun  as  a legist  and  nothing 
showed  in  him  any  special  love  for  art.  He  had  been  re- 
proved by  Pope  Pius  II  for  his  freedom  of  life;  for  he 
had  been  “gay”  and  a favourite  of  ladies  owing  to  his 
splendid  appearance  and  “magnetic  eye,”  says  a chronicler. 


386  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 

I 

He  had  several  children,  none  legitimate,  and  they  were  all 
young  when  this  portrait  was  painted.  Two  of  the  sons  are 
famous  as  we  know,  Juan  Duke  of  Gandia,  famous  for 
his  death  caused  by  the  other  famous  brother,  Caesar,  who 
was  the  model  of  the  Italian  tyrant  and  of  all  tyrants  and 
“supermen,”  according  to  his  admirer,  Machiavelli,  who  has 
built  him  an  eternal  monument  in  the  “Prince.”  He  is  too 
young  to  be  in  the  portraits  here,  unless  through  some  boy  he 
is  hinted  at.  His  sister,  about  to  be  married,  is  only  fifteen, 
but  her  traditional  portrait  is  here.  His  is  placed  in  a wall 
space  representing  a picture,  if  one  can  so  describe  it.  Alex- 
ander kneels,  as  we  see,  and  is  witness  of  the  Resurrection  of 
our  Lord,  represented  in  as  conventional  a manner  as  possible 
— a manner  made  still  more  artificial  by  the  loading  of  gold 
and  embossing  anywhere  and  everywhere  — to  take  off  the 
look  of  severity  and  meaning  that  such  a subject  might  have, 
and  should  have  were  it  not  treated  as  ornament.  What  is 
astounding  is  that  there  is  no  sense  of  irreverence  in  any  of 
these  sacred  representations.  All  is  too  subtle  and  rich  and 
beautiful  to  be  really  childish.  Within  all  this,  as  I began 
to  notice,  certain  important  portraits  came  out.  Some  we 
do  not  know;  it  is  almost  a pity  that  we  do  not;  they  are  in 
several  cases  very  fine,  though  by  portraits  I mean  faces 
evidently  from  nature  introduced  into  all  this  nursery  art. 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  387 

These  are  the  secondary  ones.  Alexander  is  still  fine,  and 
we  can  see  in  the  girlish  face  of  Saint  Catherine  something 
that  gradually  wins  by  its  innocence.  Traditionally,  and 
perhaps  incorrectly,  it  is  Lucrezia  Borgia,  the  Pope’s  daughter, 
just  about  the  time  of  her  first  marriage  to  Giovanni  Sfoarz. 
But  this  is  not  at  all  a certainty.  Terrible  representation, 
if  true,  for  another  tradition  says  that  in  one  of  these  rooms 
she  saw  her  husband,  Alphonse  of  Aragon,  murdered  by  her 
brother  after  having  kept  him  safe  for  thirty-four  days  in 
constant  watchfulness.  From  the  walls  looked  down  this 
and  another  face  which  may  be  of  Lucrezia,  but  on  no  such 
horrors  probably.  Still  the  Saint  Catherine  is  — as  was 
Lucrezia  — “gay  and  serene,”  says  some  one,  and  Bayard, 
according  to  his  biographer,  thought  her  a sweet  and  cour- 
teous lady  just  at  this  date.  Yes,  she  was  a sort  of  wax, 
to  be  usefully  stamped  by  the  hands  of  her  people.  The 
stories  of  her  being  remarkably  bad,  or  naughty,  fade  away 
on  inquiry.  She  is  where  she  may  be,  as  on  a stage,  and  she 
ends  quietly  and  prettily  far  away  from  Rome,  as  if  awakened 
from  bad  dreams  of  the  past.  In  so  far  the  “ portrait”  is 
all  right. 

The  big  picture  which  I give,  though  it  is  really  the  least 
typical  because  treated  more  as  a possible  reality,  is  this 
portrait  of  the  impossible  little  girl,  doing  theology  according 


388  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
to  the  received  way  of  former  pictures,  on  her  fingers.  There 
is  an  emperor  seated  on  a dais  and  many  lovely  boys  and 
children  who  are  supposed  to  have  something  to  do  with  the 
matter.  They  are  delightful,  and  the  heads  of  some  of  the 
elders  are  fairly  fine,  as  well  as  the  gallant  Oriental  on  horse- 
back who  brings  in  a note  of  what  is  called  to-day  local 
colour.  Djem,  the  brother  of  Bajazet,  son  of  the  Sultan 
Mahomet,  was  in  Rome,  as  we  shall  see,  with  all  his  suite, 
and  the  Romans  could  see  all  about  the  people  around 
the  “Gran  Turco.”  But  Djem  traditionally  stands  before 
us  “sad  and  splendid”  on  the  right,  in  front,  near  the 
throne  — his  face  may  bear  out  sufficiently  his  story.  He 
is  in  exile  and  kept  by  the  Pope  as  prisoner  for  his  brother’s 
advantage,  who  pays  so  much  for  this  exile.  He  is  not  killed 
— there  would  be  no  more  income.  The  Pope  reminds  the 
Sultan  of  the  money  occasionally  and  is  safe  to  get  it  — other 
European  kings  would  like  to  have  Djem  also  at  the  price , 
the  King  of  France  especially,  and  the  sad  Oriental  might 
end  on  the  Loire,  in  chilly  France,  the  life  that  endangers 
the  succession  on  the  Bosphorus. 

The  real  Djem  stood  before  and  below  this  image  of  himself 
only  a few  years  later,  and  if  the  sadness  of  his  face  is  here, 
it  is  a forerunner  of  what  must  have  filled  his  heart.  On 
what  occasions  he  may  have  been  there  we  can  guess  at,  and 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  389 

we  know  of  many.  His  janissaries  and  his  very  musicians 
were  lodged  within  the  places  of  the  Faith.  For  Djem,  as 
the  reader  knows,  was  a hostage,  a prisoner,  confided  to  the 
previous  Pope  Innocent,  at  a maintenance  of  forty  thousand 
ducats,  by  his  brother  Bajazet,  the  son  of  the  terrible 
Mahomet  H.  And  Djem,  as  we  saw,  was  a prize  to  keep. 
When  later  the  Pope  begged  the  help  of  Bajazet  to  resist  the 
French  invader  Charles,  he  held  out  to  the  Sultan  the 
fear  of  Djem’s  reestablishment  on  the  throne  of  Mahomet, 
to  carry  out  the  chivalrous  French  dreamer’s  wish  for  an 
Oriental  career  and  Jerusalem.  Then  Bajazet  replied  that 
it  would  be  better  to  put  Djem  to  death,  and  soon,  and  in  any 
preferable  way,  and  “thus  that  his  soul  would  pass  into  a 
happier  world.”  Also  that  three  hundred  thousand  ducats 
would  go  for  this  and  perpetual  peace  for  the  Christians  under 
his  rule. 

So  that  with  regret  for  all  sorts  of  reasons,  Alexander  gave 
up  Djem  to  Charles  as  he  pased  through  Rome,  victorious, 
going  to  Naples.  Djem  and  Caesar  Borgia  were  to  be  hos- 
tages. Caesar  escaped  in  disguise;  Djem  died  “after  having 
eaten  things  which  disagreed  with  him,”  says  the  diary  of 
Burchard.  So  that  Bajazet  must  have  settled  with  some  one. 
With  such  chances  and  such  previous  training  it  is  natural 
that  the  gravest  figure  in  the  painting  (the  despot  Paleologos) 


390  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
should  have  been  taken  to  represent  the  fated  Turkish  prince. 
So  constant  and  terrible  a danger  might  well  be  repre- 
sented in  an  anxious  face,  even  the  law  of  Kafer  (the  law 
of  Destiny)  ruled  the  mind  of  Mahommedan.  As  both 
Bajazet  and  his  father’s  friend,  the  poet,  put  it,  “Oh!  God! 
before  creating  me  Thou  hadst  fixed  my  fate  and  decided  my 
fortune.  Thou  hadst  traced  in  all  Eternity  the  path  I 
should  have  to  follow.  ” 

Most  learned  men  prefer  to  believe  in  some  other  portrait 
because  we  know  that  the  Turkish  prince  explained  to  Man- 
tegna that  his  turban  carried  many,  many  ells  of  stuff. 
Some  have  inclined  to  the  more  romantic  belief  and  for  our 
present  mood  we  may  stand  by  that  tradition.  It  is  sufficient 
to  feel  that  the  charming  room  contains  this  tragedy  also. 

A far  more  tragic  figure  is  that  in  the  foreground  in  an 
Oriental  costume,  but  not  Turkish  apparently.  He  is  said 

i 

to  be  Andrea  Paleologue,  nephew  and  heir  of  the  unfortunate 
Emperor  Constantine,  under  whom  the  Turks  captured  Con- 
stantinople. Here  is  real,  present  misfortune  — one  that  we 
can  feel  even  at  this  day  — and  if  there  ever  was  a picture  of 
sadness  and  discontent  it  is  his.  This  presence  of  the  possible 
rival  claimants  is  perhaps  as  well  indicated  as  we  can  expect. 
There  are  doubts  and  doubts  — let  us  merely  see  the  images. 

Need  we  remark  how  beautifully  absurd  is  the  great  Roman 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  391 

Arch  crowned  by  the  Bull  — the  emblem,  one  might  say, 
the  token  of  the  Borgia  family,  which  bull  appears  whenever 
he  can  be  introduced  in  the  ornamentations  of  the  ceilings  or 
anywhere,  and  beautifully.  In  fact  the  whole  ornamen- 
tation is  a miracle  of  fanciful  guile  and  consummate  art. 
And  it  is  sad  not  to  have  space  here  in  which  to  show  it.  But 
all  is  poor  compared  with  the  reality.  May  our  reader  be 
transported  to  Rome  and  see  it  all,  and  see  it  with  good-natured 
mind;  one  that  can  feel  the  rest  of  a far-away  place  and  time 
so  surely  exampled  here. 

The  big  arch  in  the  picture  is  a type  of  the  arrangement  of 
the  panels,  a centre  of  architecture  for  fountain  or  something, 
partly  conventional,  and  then  a story  and  sometimes  few  or 
many  figures,  and  usually  lovely  landscapes;  and  all , every- 
thing, dusted  over  with  gold  or  embossing. 

There  is  the  religious  “Annunciation”  and  there  are  the 
figures  of  the  “Learned  Arts,”  arithmetic  or  music,  etc., 
which  have  this  general  arrangement  (and  even  the  story  of 
“Susanna”  with  its  charming  fountain) . Nor  has  the  “ Story  of 
the  Bull”  missed  special  place.  The  myth  of  Isis  and  Osiris 
gives  the  excuse;  all  the  story  is  told  in  childish,  amiable 
splendour  and  ends  in  the  glorification  of  the  Bull.  Here 
again  all  should  be  seen  as  in  a child’s  story.  And  all  his 
sweetness  and  innocent  beauty  looked  down  on  tragedy  and 


392  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
on  forms  of  impropriety,  to  say  the  least,  which  explains 
Julius  ITs  wish  to  have  them  closed  — these  rooms  of  ill  fame. 

Where  did  Alexander  die?  He  died,  piously,  as  he  certainly 
would,  being  a creature  of  the  moment,  but  he  was  occasionally 
troubled  by  the  vision  of  a monkey  dancing  about.  To  a 
cardinal  who  said  that  he  would  catch  him,  the  dying  man 
said:  “ Leave  it  alone  — it  is  the  Devil.”  They  say  that 
the  Devil  long  capered  in  these  empty  rooms. 


XXXI 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  — PART  THREE 


In  the  beautiful  vaults  of  the  Apartments  we  have  missed, 
of  necessity  because  of  their  youth,  authentic  reminders  or 
portraits  of  the  sons  of  Alexander;  Csesar,  the  illustrious, 
and  Juan,  memorable  because  of  his  cruel  brother,  Csesar. 
They  may  be  there.  The  Borgia  were  handsome,  had  been, 
and  continued  to  be  for  more  than  a century.  Perhaps 
descendants  of  theirs  are  yet  so  to-day.  And  there  are  beauti- 
ful boys  in  the  paintings,  as  well  as  portraits  which  we  do 
not  recognize.  As  we  said,  we  are  inclined  to  believe  that 
the  absurdly  pretty  St.  Catherine  may  be  a reminder  of 
Lucrezia,  the  Pope’s  daughter,  then,  or  thereabouts,  engaged 
to  her  first  husband.  The  legend  of  St.  Catherine,  wherein 
she  defeats  in  controversy  the  pagans  who  dare  to  oppose 
her,  in  the  presence  of  a convenient  emperor,  we  see  in  our 
picture  sufficiently  represented  as  a legend.  There  is  some- 
thing not  impertinent  in  a fantastic  representation  of  a fan- 
tastic and  symbolic  legend,  typifying  all  the  examinations 
and  judgments  of  Christians  through  the  ages  of  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Church.  In  the  representations  of  serious  subjects 


396  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
of  Christian  story  we  feel  that  the  artist  has  only  escaped 
degradation  by  wisely  and  courageously  bringing  in  direct 
treatment  of  the  wonderful  subjects  as  of  ornamentation 
merely.  One,  “The  Annunciation,”  we  have  here.  And 
the  general  subject  of  the  “Liberal  Arts,”  a motive  of  the 
period  and  of  preceding  periods,  is  sufficiently  free  to  give 
the  painter  free  play.  The  room  is  known  as  that  of  the 
Liberal  Arts  and  Sciences.  Next  to  this  is  the  room  separated 
by  a more  recent  wall,  wherein  the  Pope  died,  as  we  saw, 
and  the  Devil  danced.  Tradition  had  taken  this  more 
beautiful  one  adjoining  for  the  end  of  the  famous  pontiff  — 
but  here  at  least  he  worked. 

Here  however,  must  have  come  before  that  the  wife  of 
Caesar’s  brother,  the  Duchess  of  Gandia.  Here  the  Pope 
for  a long  time  heard  at  night  the  steps  and  the  plaint  of  his 
murdered  son  Juan,  the  Duke  of  Gandia.  The  wife  of  Juan 
was  destined  to  bring  into  this  strange  family  a sanctity 
carried  through  for  a long  period  and  enclosing  the  great 
Saint  Francis  Borja. 

Her  son  Don  Juan  Borja,  Third  Duke  of  Gandia,  lived  a 
handsome  and  moral  life.  She  herself  is  a model  of  every 
virtue  and  of  all  proprieties  and  duties  of  the  household. 
She  inspires  the  ideas  of  her  grandson  Francis,  who  is  to 
become  the  saint.  She  is  enthusiastic  and  ideal,  and  at  the 


PINTURICCHIO 
THE  ANNUNCIATION 


BORGIA  APARTMENTS — THE  VATICAN 
PHOTOGRAPH  BY  ANDERSON 


o 

a 

Oh 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  397 

same  time  as  practical  and  economical  as  is  necessary  for  a 
great  lady  who  looks  after  her  people.  She  is  a very  great 
lady,  apart  from  any  marriage  into  the  duchy.  She  is 
a Henriquez,  of  royal  connection.  Has  she  forgotten?  Of 
course  she  has  forgiven,  that  is  the  Christian  duty  — and  she 
is  a Christian  in  every  detail.  Now,  there  is  a painting  which 
of  late  has  exercised  the  imagination  of  those  who  have  seen 
it.  So  far  an  unknown  painting — having  apparently  belonged 
to  this  lady  and  found  near  the  residential  town,  among 
things  scattered  by  the  chances  of  all  sorts — war  and  social 
change  and  even  the  tendency  to  form  collections  of  art. 
This  painting  is  a memorial,  passing  strange  enough  to 
make  one  dream.  It  has  the  usual  proper  and  accustomed 
saints.  Exactly  why  Saint  Dominic  and  Saint  Catherine  of 
Siena  are  there  I have  no  clue  for  except  their  devotion  to  the 
rosary.  But  we  can  be  sure  that  they  are  there  for  reason- 
able cause  — only  it  may  be  small  and  personal  — some 
particular  devotion,  or  it  may  refer  to  the  heroes  of  the  picture 
and  symbolize  them.  The  Madonna,  of  course,  is  both  a 
reality  of  intercession  and  a symbol  of  love  and  pardon. 
In  the  painting  she, gives  arose  from  her  rosary  to  the  kneel- 
ing figure,  above  whom  is  Saint  Catherine,  the  patron  saint 
of  the  rosary.  Why?  Is  it  a pledge  of  acceptance?  Her 
votary  has  little  time  to  pray.  Even  the  very  poor  (though 


398  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
elegant)  drawing  of  the  artist  only  ^delays  a little  the  action 
of  the  murderer  about  to  kill  him.  Crowned  with  the  same 
roses,  he  kneels  and  looks  intently.  Is  it  at  the  two  standing 
gentlemen  opposite  him?  One  of  these  casts  before  him  a 
sword  and  a gauntlet.  The  other  has  a vague  gesture  (of  a 
similar  kind).  We  have,  I believe,  no  certain  portrait  of  the 
murdered  duke.  Is  it  he  who  kneels  crowned  with  roses 
to  meet  death?  And  is  that  Caesar  opposite?  We  know 
no  very  certain  portrait,  but  there  is  a representation  meant 
to  look  like  him  in  the  woodcut  of  Paolo  Giovio.  Is  this 
all  a dream?  Can  it  be  a picture  of  forgiveness,  with 
the  three  brothers  all  together,  united  in  death?  Is 
it,  perhaps,  the  painting  ordered  by  the  Duchess  for  her  , 
oratory,  from  the  rather  poor  painter  entirely  her  own,  whose 
work  this  looks  like,  and  who  painted,  as  I say,  only  for  her? 
Of  course  we  may  intelligently  doubt.  Even  I can  find  some 

i 

other  origin,  but  uncertain  as  yet.  Meanwhile  our  picture 
has  engaged  the  interest  and  imagination  of  inquirers  and 
we  may  learn. 

Near  here  is  the  little  port  of  Grao  whence  the  Borgia 

i 

had  sailed  to  conquer  the  world.  There,  the  greatest,  Caesar 
Borgia,  came  back,  a prisoner  in  disgrace,  to  engage  in  obscure 

* 

fight  and  to  die  obscurely  and  perchance.  He  who  had 
been  a French  prince,  a relative  and  connection  of  kings, 


THE  BORGIA  ROOMS  399 

and  more  than  king  himself  — is  killed  some  night  in  an  en- 
gagement of  sentries.  Perhaps  mere  chance.  But  by  such 
obscure  chances  he  himself  had  seen  his  enemies  disappear. 
With  his  (Csesar’s)  disappearance  (where  is  he  buried?) 
the  family  has  been  nothing  but  saintly.  His  grandnephew 
is  a saint.  We  know  the  romantic  story  which  led  him  to 
renounce  the  world  — and  we  know  exactly,  minutely  and 
officially  how. 

It  has  been  told  in  pictured  legend  and  verse  how  he  was 
obliged  to  look  upon  the  dead  face  of  the  Empress  of  Charles 
V,  who  only  a short  time  before  had  been  beautiful.  The 
horrible  changes  wakened  him  to  the  vanity  of  all  things. 
Many  of  us  have  seen  this  horror.  Some  of  the  Spanish 
painters  have  actually  represented  it.  In  the  case  of  the 
Duke  of  Gandia,  soon  to  be  Saint  Francis  Borja,  he  had  the 
charge  of  his  imperial  mistress’s  coffin  in  a progress  from  one 
city  to  another.  He  had  to  certify  to  the  delivery  of  these 
remains  and  to  open  the  coffin  for  his  oath  of  office  as  to  the 
identity.  Therefore  this  impression;  not  alone  felt  by  him, 
but  also  by  De  Ranee,  the  founder  of  the  Trappists,  when 
he  saw  his  dead,  unlawful  love.  And  the  duke  said:  “ Never 
again  shall  I serve  a mortal  master.”  “Nunca  mas,  Nunca 
mas  servir  a senor  que  se  me  pueda  morir” 

And  we  are  told  that  he  feared  the  chances  of  some  great 


400  ONE  HUNDRED  MASTERPIECES  OF  PAINTING 
dignity  in  the  Church  and  was  obsessed  by  visions  of  a mitre 
above  him.  Of  course  that  was  the  inevitable,  only  to  be 
avoided  by  his  pledge,  and,  as  some  of  his  chroniclers  insin- 
uate, it  might  have  been  the  papacy  itself.  Perhaps  a beauti- 
ful thing  might  have  been  a saint  as  a Borgia  Pope  — closing 
the  ill-omened  name  where  it  had  gained  its  sad  celebrity. 


THE  END 


